An Impatient Week
by cassiopeia3019
Summary: A week is a long time when you're in love (Slash, SamFrodo)
1. Sterday: Gardening

**_An Impatient Week_**

_Please note this story is slash (centered on Sam/Frodo); if you are underage or not allowed to view such material, please be responsible and do not read on._

_This story will be posted in seven chapters, one for each day of the week. Please enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated._

**1. Sterday: Gardening**

Something was tickling Frodo's nose. Something terribly delicious. A warm, slightly sweet smell sneaked through the cracks around his door, travelling along the carpet, past the tumbles of parchments piled haphazardly on his desk, making its way to his bed. 

Yawning, Frodo pulled the blankets around his body and stretched his arms and legs. Taking a moment to let the remnants of a dream float from his sleep-riddled mind, he opened his eyes. Dashes of bright sunlight slid into the room through the gauzy curtains, drawing long lines of gold across the carpet. Birds sang to the early morning breeze, welcoming the dawn.

Another yawn cracked his jaw, and he hastily clapped a hand over his ever-widening mouth. He snuggled into the crisp sheets, grateful that he was able to lie in bed each morning sheltered in peace and quiet. 

Frodo remembered when he had shared a room with four younger lads at Brandy Hall. He usually awoke to the sounds of quarrelling, lads elbowing each other over the wash basin, playing at tug-of-war with the washcloth, or cupping water in their hands to splash at each other. Frodo would pull on his clothes quietly and slide out before they could bring him into the fray as well.

Frodo threw one hand behind his head, arching his chest, letting out a sigh. How might he spend the day? Re-reading a favourite story? Lying in the sun whilst sunbeams bathed his face? Helping Uncle Bilbo with the accounts? Frodo made a face at that. He thought of the gardens outside, and considered that there were pleasures to be had whilst lying in bed that he couldn't have imagined at Brandy Hall.

Pleasures that Frodo had found himself indulging in a great deal lately.

Frodo heard a clatter of crockery coming from the kitchen, and the smell wafting deliciously beneath his bedroom door finally found a name in his mind: evidently Sam had decided to fry a batch of pikelets for breakfast.

Sam. 

Frodo smiled as he thought of the young gardener. 

Increasingly Frodo's thoughts were drawn to Samwise Gamgee, who had changed in a few seasons from a tow-haired child to a strapping lad, grown to be someone more beautiful than Frodo could have dreamed. Like a butterfly, thought Frodo, guiding a hand over his chest.

No -- of course not. Sam wasn't an ugly caterpillar before -- it was just that Frodo had never noticed how...special he was. 

Frodo moved his hand over his stomach, idly drawing circles around his bellybutton. His skin rose to tiny goosebumps at the touch, prickling with a want that simmered through him. _If he lowered his hand he would find a tangle of curls._

Frodo stilled his hand for a moment, straining to hear the sound of Sam's voice as he flipped the pikelets. But the air brought no sound other than sweet birdsong and the clink of dishes rattling about.

With a short moan Frodo moved his hand till he found his need, already straining and tight from the thoughts that had sparkled in his mind. He squeezed himself gently, feeling his mouth water at the pleasure, allowing it to weave up his body till heightened desire called for a new stroke, a new pull...

"Rise and shine Mr. Frodo!" 

Frodo blinked as a stout figure strode across the floor. Sam pulled back the curtains to let a blinding flash of light fall into the room, then pushed the shutters out, letting a soft breeze billow the curtains. 

Stemming his ache with a groan, Frodo pulled up his knees and curled his body into a ball. Sam stood next to the bed, peering at him. "Sir, are you feeling well?"

Bunching up the sheet around his waist, Frodo said, "I'm fine, Sam."

"Let me just change the bedclothes." Sam made a move towards the sheets. Frodo grabbed them tight.

"Sam! Just...could you wait a moment?" Heat tinted Frodo's cheeks.

"Sorry, sir." Sam stepped back, placing his hands in front of him to wait for Frodo to leave his bed. A long minute passed where Sam began to frown slightly and Frodo tried desperately to think cold thoughts.

"Mr. Bilbo asked if you could help me today with the plantin'," Sam said finally. "If you're taken poorly...I'll tell him I'm fine doing it misself."

"I'm not feeling poorly," Frodo muttered, gripping the sheet in one hand, while silently cursing his uncle.

"Then you can help?" asked Sam, brightening with a smile.

"Of course," said Frodo lightly. That smile was not helping matters. "I'll be glad to." He thought to change the subject. "Are you cooking pikelets for breakfast?"

"That I am, sir," said Sam proudly. "With clotted cream fresh from Farmer Muddyfoot's."

Frodo grinned when his belly grumbled in response. Certain situations now seemed to be settled in his body, so Frodo could promise: "I shall get up and dressed to enjoy them. I'll just be a moment."

"Right, sir." Sam eyes sparkled with mirth when Frodo waved that he should leave the room.

Once Sam had shut the door behind him, Frodo kicked the covers that pressed down on his body and crawled off the bed. The rich, green carpet tickled his feet as he crossed to his wardrobe. He pulled out a pair of breeches and a shirt -- it would be too warm for a weskit today. 

Tugging up his trousers, Frodo spared a scowl for a certain part of his anatomy, fastened his buttons and went to the kitchen.

Uncle Bilbo sat at the table, a pipe clenched between his teeth, pouring over a mess of papers. "The Browntrees are late on their payment again," he muttered, his brow furrowing in concern. "I hope little Hanna's well."

Frodo sat across from Bilbo, welcoming the smoking cup of tea Sam placed in front of him. "Good morning, Bilbo," he said pointedly, taking a sip.

"Ah, Frodo-lad, good to see you up." Bilbo took the pipe from his mouth and let a smoke ring float across the table. "And how are you today?"

Frodo tossed a look at Sam, who managed to shake his head as a pikelet almost slipped off the turner. "Very well, thank you, Bilbo." 

"Then you'll be able to help Sam whilst I go collect this month's rents, eh? Master Hamfast's hands have swelled up again so he can't work, and Sam tells me much gardening needs to be done."

"He'll be fine soon, Mr. Bilbo, begging your pardon," put in Sam as he laid a plate of steaming pikelets on the table. "Mrs. Marchbank's given him some liniment that oughta help. I 'spect he'll be back working in the garden in a day or two," he added as he placed a bowl of cream next to the plate.

"Mmmm," murmured Bilbo as he spread cream over his pikelet. "It's just -- how old are you, Sam my boy?"

"Twenty, Mr. Bilbo," answered Sam, rubbing at the spot where a lump of cream had fallen onto the table.

"Twenty?" Bilbo fell silent as he began to eat.

Frodo kept his eyes firm on his plate as he bolted down his breakfast. Sam rattled around the kitchen, humming to himself as he collected dishes and fried the rest of the pikelets.

"Is there something wrong with Hanna?" asked Frodo. Hanna was the Browntrees' babe, only a few months old, brown-haired and rosy cheeked, with a frightful squeal.

"I don't know," said Bilbo with a shake of the head. "There's a fever that's been sweeping Bywater, and Hanna seems to have taken it -- Mrs. Browntree's been unable to tend to her washing duties nursing her. I expect the loss of that extra income is hitting them hard. We shall have to see how we can help."

"I know you'll do your best, dear Bilbo," said Frodo, seeing Sam stop and stare from the corner of his eye. "Just remember you can't mend every problem in the four Farthings yourself."

"I will, Frodo-lad." Bilbo shook a forkful of pikelet at Frodo. "Best you learn from me what a responsibility we owe to our tenants; it's not just a matter of collecting rents." 

Frodo sighed; he wished all of Bilbo's business interests only involved taking cakes to sick tenants and seeing they were well-settled. The other matters were frightfully complicated. Bilbo owned several houses in Hobbiton and Bywater, and as Master of the Hill must settle disputes between land borders and ensure the harvests on his fields would produce a yield that would feed all the hungry mouths in the Westfarthing.

"Well, I'm off!" cried out Bilbo as he pushed back a plateful of crumbs. "I shan't be back till this afternoon at least. I might perhaps have my lunch at _The Ivy Bush_, and after that I think I'll go see your dad, Sam."

Sam looked down at his hands as he wiped them with tea towel. "Aye, his hands were giving him a bit o' trouble this morning, but he'll welcome you, sir."

"I hope so," chuckled Bilbo, turning to his young cousin. "Frodo, don't be squirming out of your duties. See to it, Sam."

"Aye, sir," said Sam with a flush as Bilbo gathered up his papers and scurried out of the smial.

Frodo looked at Sam for a moment. "Shall I help you with the dishes?" he asked, and, without waiting for a reply, plucked the tea towel off the bench.

Sam stood awkwardly for a moment. "Right, sir," he said after a moment's thought, and turned to fill the sink.

*

Frodo knelt next to Sam, the aroma of slightly damp earth drifting up to his nose. Sunshine warmed his skin till fine droplets of sweat gathered underneath his collar. Creamy-white clouds hovered over the horizon, dividing the blue strip of the Water from the sparkling blue of the sky. This spring had been one of the finest in Frodo's memory: the grass had a particular shade of green; bees buzzed at the hearts of rich, fragrant flowers; and the size of the tomatoes in the garden and the abundance of cherries in the orchard had exceeded all expectations. 

A light breeze ruffled Sam's hair, lifting his brown curls as it swept by on its way to the sea. Beside him lay a tray of seedlings, leaves limp and pale green; but soon they would grow to be strong, strapping plants that could withstand even the frosts of winter. They had been sown by the Gaffer last month and taken to the greenhouse to sprout, and now they needed to be planted so they could take root before winter. 

Sam lifted a seedling from the tray, gently shaking it so dirt fell from its roots to the ground. "See, Mr. Frodo?" he was saying. "You dig a hole, put the seedling in and pile dirt 'round it so's it comes up to its middle. You give it some water to lap up, and when it all drains away then you can put the rest of the dirt on top."

"I see," said Frodo, watching as Sam put the seedling into the soil, moisten the soil with a watering pot, and tamp more dirt around it so it was snug.

"Then you add a bit more water so the roots have something enough to drink," continued Sam, taking the watering pot and carefully pouring it over the freshly-planted seedling. "Not much to it really, sir."

"Perhaps for you," said Frodo, trailing a finger through the soil, "but to me it seems, well, stranger than dwarvish."

"Ah, I thought you knew some of that talk."

"Not much, just some cuss words," laughed Frodo, reaching over to pick up a delicate seedling from the tray. He looked around the garden, silently marvelling at what Sam's –- and the Gaffer's -- skilled hands have given life to. Lipped snapdragons and hazy love-in-a-mist swayed quietly, while sprays of cornflowers bearing colours of white and blue perfectly complemented the tall spires of pink hollyhock nestling against his bedroom window. 

"How do you know this seedling will grow strong?" asked Frodo curiously, twisting a leaf around his finger. 

"You've got to plant in the right season and make sure the soil's rich. I've already composted this garden, so that's no concern." Sam paused, looking up to the sky with a creased brow. "Today's not what I'd choose for planting; better to dig when the clouds gather overhead to protect the seedlings from the sun, but we don't have much choice 'bout it."

Sam's face lit up as he spoke proudly, as if he'd swallowed up a sunbeam and it was shining through his skin. Frodo touched his own cheek as if to stop his blush of sudden want from rising. 

"Mr. Frodo." Sam turned his attention to another seedling in the tray.

Frodo swallowed a breath. "What is it, Sam?"

"You've gone and messed your face." 

"Oh." Frodo wiped his cheek. "Is it gone now?"

"It's that much worse," Sam grinned. 

"Bother!" Frodo rubbed at his face. Thankfully, Sam had quickly turned away to plant another seedling.

Copying Sam, Frodo gently shook the roots of the seedling to let the soil fall. With his fingers he dug a small hollow, and carefully lowered the seedling inside. Bits of black earth lodged under his fingernails as he piled dirt around the thin stem, tamping down as Sam had done.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Rough brown fingers caught Frodo's wrist, startling him. "Y-yes, Sam?"

"You didn't add water before you packed the rest of the dirt around the seedling," Sam blushed. "Begging your pardon."

Frodo stared helplessly at the seedling, wondering why he was such an ass that he couldn't even follow a simple instruction in Sam's presence. And those fingers still rested lightly on Frodo -- oh, they were so warm! He shyly lifted his gaze, meeting sober brown eyes. For a moment a thread of thought wove between them, then Sam, realising where his hand was, blanched and withdrew his fingers. 

"Sorry, Mr. Frodo," he said. "The seedling'll be all right, like as not." 

Wiping a sprinkling of sweat from his forehead -- was the sun really _that_ hot? --, Frodo plucked a new seedling from the tray, concentrating very hard on making sure he planted it right this time.

"Begging your pardon, sir," said Sam after a while, tipping a trickle of water over a seedling. "But I don't reckon you have to do all this -- it doesn't seem right, nohow."

"What do you mean?" asked Frodo, his stomach clenched in sudden dismay.

"Well, Mr. Frodo, why should you be working in the garden, seeing that hands as fine as yours could be put to better use?"

Frodo shook his head. "Spending a day pouring over elvish lore or old contracts is not nearly as important as what you can do: bringing things to grow and bloom."

And at that, both hobbits blushed, and for the moment busied themselves with their tasks. 

They worked in silence, Frodo watching Sam's able hands hold and caress the seedlings as gentle as you like. Hands that carefully tended Bag End's garden as if it were Sam's own, Frodo realized, and shuddered to recall his gardener touching his wrist.

Biting his lip, Frodo shifted on his knees, digging another hollow, not being able to stop himself from staring at Sam's hands holding the green fragile seedling.

Frodo sucked in a deep breath, trying to still the throbbing of his heart. 

_I love him._

Scraping his fingernails through the dirt, Frodo forced back a sob, shaking his head quickly to sweep out the lingering cobwebs. It was plain obvious where Sam's love lay: in Bag End's garden, not with its minor inhabitant -- a rather slender and bookish hobbit. And in a few years when Sam came of age, a lass would bear his children and make his eyes sparkle brighter than the stars above. 

"Should we make lunch now?" suggested Frodo quickly, patting the soil around the last seedling with a satisfying _smack_.

"A quick one for me, I reckon, Mr. Frodo, seeing as my Gaffer's not here," answered Sam, picking up the empty tray. "There's still the lawn to mow and the weeds to pick." He fiddled with something in the tray. "Thank you, sir, for helping," he added with a timid smile.

Frodo brushed bits of dirt that clung to his breeches. "I hope I was a help to you and not a hindrance," he said, the words feeling clumsy and sticky on his tongue. "It's not everyday you help give life to the land."

"It is like that, sir," said Sam. "Sometimes I feel that -- that the seedlings and such are my own children!" He laughed and ducked his head then, as if he thought Frodo might take such thoughts for foolishness.

*

Frodo watched Sam across the table as he broke off pieces of buttered bread and dropped them into his mouth. He took a sip of his own cambric tea, feeling it tumble down his throat and warm his belly. Bilbo had yet to return, leaving Frodo to take his lunch with Sam alone. The novelty of this combined with fear made Frodo light-headed and prone to breaking the piece of bread in his hands until it became a pile of breadcrumbs scattered across the table and in his lap.

"Sam," asked Frodo quickly before the words were chased from his tongue, "do you ever think you'll have children? Marry a lass I mean?" 

With a bit of cheese raised to his mouth, Sam stopped, flicking a stray crumb onto his plate. "I 'spose, sir," he said. "My Gaffer says I oughta have a large family so they can follow in my footsteps, so to speak. Mayhap one of 'em will garden Bag End one day."

Frodo nodded faintly. It had never occurred to him that one of Sam's children would tend Bag End's garden. He could imagine Sam being followed into the orchard by a line of tow-headed hobbit lads and lasses in descending height, but how did he see of himself? Much the same as he was now, but grey-haired, bent over his writing desk, alone without Bilbo.

"Do you think, if you pardon me asking, you'll be getting married, sir? Since you're nearly of age." Sam busied himself scraping butter on another piece of bread. 

"Sam," said Frodo quietly. He knew he'd never marry. Bilbo had seen it when he had chosen Frodo as his heir -- that Frodo was quite like him. Frodo traced the scallop of his plate with a finger. He would tell Sam now -- tell him that no little Bagginses would run around Bag End whilst he lived under the Hill. "I won't be married -- I'm like Bilbo. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Sam only stared at his plate.

Frodo's stomach heaved; he stood up to lean against the window sill, the spicy scent of herbs from the window box only intensifying his queasiness. 

"Don't hate me," murmured Frodo, afraid that his tears were evident in the way his voice wavered.

"No." Sam's voice quiet, while the world seemed unbearably still. "My dear...sir. I could never hate you..." The younger hobbit could no longer speak, and Frodo could not bring himself to turn around. Then, "I ought to go..." Frodo heard Sam shuffle nervously on his feet.

Frodo dared to glance over his shoulder.

"Thank you for luncheon," Sam said softly when he reached the door.

Frodo's eyes swam, so that the figure of his gardener became a blur. "You're welcome."

Frodo waited until the door closed, then he ran to the sink and vomited. He rested his forehead on the cool porcelain and rinsed his mouth, cupping the water in a shaking hand. A sickly-sweet smell hovered in the air.

What had possessed him to speak his thoughts aloud? Now Sam would watch him with a wary eye, wondering what each twinkling smile, each soft touch really meant. He stared into the garden. Sam was nowhere to be seen. A fear like rope tightened around Frodo's throat. Where was Sam? He would have to go talk to Sam. Tell him...what? That he had nothing to fear? Frodo shook his head in confusion and dismay. 

There was no sign of Sam anywhere in Bag End's garden, nor at the compost heap or clothes line. 

Frodo took the flagstone path, following its curve toward the back of the Hill. He soon came upon a small outbuilding -- the shed where all of the Gaffer's and Sam's gardening tools were kept; clippers, buckets, shovels, hoes and other things beyond Frodo's naming. 

Faint murmurs reached Frodo's ears, carrying in the light breeze that brushed at his cheeks. The shed door swung gently. 

For a reason he didn't know, Frodo crept along slowly, hearing his breaths come fast, finally reaching the shed. The wooden slats of the building had warped over time to leave narrow cracks. Frodo put an eye against a slit and saw Sam, sitting on an old wooden bucket, running his hands through his golden curls, mumbling to himself.

"What would your Gaffer say, Samwise, if he knew?"

Heart pounding, Frodo knelt, breathing shallow. Sam seemed to be having some kind of debate with himself. 

The planks were prickly against Frodo's hand, yet again he looked through the gap, splinters poking at his cheek. Now Sam was viscously swiping a hand across his eyes, shoulders trembling.

"Hey, Sam--" He snapped his fingers. "--what _would_ Mr. Frodo say? Get you gone, that's what he'd say."

Sam pounded the dirt floor with his feet in frustration. "But then, what was he sayin' 'bout him being like Mr. Bilbo? Ah, but you're seeing more than you should. You know better than to listen to old Sandyman's drunken talk."

Frodo stood rooted on the spot. He wasn't sure what he was listening to. 

"So what're you going to do 'bout it, Sam? Speak up." And then the hobbit gave such a heartfelt sigh that Frodo felt tears spring up in his eyes.

Sam shook his head, curls flopping over his brow. "You really are a ninnyhammer, Samwise Gamgee -- keep your eyes to the ground, not to fancies that are above you and your like."

Then Sam put his face in his hands. "But I love him with all my heart."

Frodo clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. He watched as Sam sat and swayed gently from side to side. 

Unable to bear the sight of his friend in such pain, and unable to go in to him, Frodo ran up the path, back inside the smial, and shut the kitchen door behind him, breaths coming short and raspy.

What was Sam...?

He said something about speaking up...

_I love him with all my heart._

Who was the he Sam had referred to? It couldn't be...but could it?

Is it me? Frodo wondered.

If Sam felt the same...

Frodo glared down at his hands, pale and shaking where they grasped the kitchen table for support. 

A chance, the smallest of chances... How was he to let Sam know that he would welcome and return his love?

And it was his hands, _his fine hands_ Sam called them, that gave Frodo an idea: applying the skill that had been finely honed by Bilbo's patient teaching all these years. The skill of shaping thoughts and feelings with loops and curls drawn onto parchment would help Frodo reveal all of his heart's desires.

~*~

_To be continued on Sunday…_


	2. Sunday: Letter

_Author's note: Sorry about the delay! The next chapter will be up soon, I promise. The song in this chapter is from _The Lord of the Rings_, ch IV, pg 88, film tie-in edition 2001._

**2. Sunday: Letter**

Frodo clicked the quill against his teeth. He was sitting at his desk, surrounded by an untidy jumble of ink bottles and books. Since first light he'd been awake, attempting to set his thoughts to paper. Try as he might, he couldn't seem to put his feelings into words. Writing elvish poetry and tales of high adventure were much easier than telling Sam how much he cared for him.

_How much he desired him._

Sam was singing somewhere off in the smial as he tended to his duties inside Bag End -- a tune heard each Highday at _The Ivy Bush_ with a clank of mugs to finish.

_Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go_

_To heal my heart and drown my woe._

_Rain may fall and wind may blow, _

_And many miles be still to go, _

_But under a tall tree I will lie, _

_And let the clouds go sailing by._

Sam finished his song with a low _Ho! Ho! Ho!, _then Frodo heard the door snap close. A hum started outside Frodo's window, along with the click of shears. Such distraction would do him no favours; Frodo tried to brush aside the feelings swelling within him at the sound of the gardener's deep voice by massaging his brow, trying to force words from his head down to his fingertips.

_I love you,_ he wrote, then balled the expensive paper up in his fist in frustration. Frodo was sure of his feelings of love for Sam, as sure as he held dear affection for Bilbo and warm regard for Merry and Pippin and Freddy and Folco, but there was a _wanting_ to do things with Sam that flew a warm blush to his cheeks and a tender flurry to his stomach .

_He imagined kissing Sam in slow, hungry movements while the stars swung overhead, running fingers through Sam's honey-coloured hair scented of earth and rainwater. Drawing meandering lines with his fingers through a forest of golden curls that grew thick on a broad chest, eventually sliding lower and lower, till the coarse material of a waistband hid something that..._

A shudder ran under Frodo's skin. Oh, what would happen if Sam just touched him, considering that just thinking about it could send aching pangs down to his nether parts. 

Ignoring the want that raked over his skin with considerable fortitude, Frodo dipped the quill into the inkwell and began to write again. 

His letter explained his feelings, made no room for mistakes. If he was a bit poetic and high flying with metaphors of stars and clouds in the beginning, the gentlehobbit of Bag End became more prosaic at the letter's end. Frodo made sure to say that if Sam didn't share his feelings, no harm would come to him. Frodo would simply never mention it again, even if it stung his heart like a prick of a rose thorn. 

An hour later, Frodo read over the letter one more time, before stuffing it in an envelope, writing "Sam" in graceful Tengwar and sealing it with wax.

"You're up early, Frodo."

Frodo jumped as his uncle ambled into the room. "Hullo, Bilbo," he said, deftly tucking the envelope under his arm. 

"Still translating?" asked Bilbo, peering at the sea of crumpled parchments.

"Yes," said Frodo, quickly sweeping the crumpled papers into the wastebasket. "Thought I would get a start on it. How are you this morning?"

"Well enough, dear boy. But I wondered if I could ask a favour of you?"

Frodo looked up expectantly, if not a little warily. Bilbo's requests had became more than a little odd during the past year.

"Could you go to the market and collect some things for me? I didn't have enough time to do it yesterday." 

Bilbo handed over his list.

Frodo took it, reading oddments as followed the meanderings of Bilbo's mind: mint sauce, a ball of twine, an incongruous row boat paddle -- along with more mundane quills and parchment. 

"Certainly, Bilbo," he said.

"Good lad," Bilbo continued. "I spoke with Master Hamfast at last on the subject of his retirement."

"Retirement?" Frodo replied, slowly.

"The Gaffer is ready to step down from gardening here, and young Sam is quite able to take over his duties. Although," Bilbo chuckled, "Master Gamgee will still advise on the planting of the taters."

"Well..." Frodo sighed, eyebrows rising.

"You'll have to get used to just Sam being underfoot," Bilbo added, his eyes the hue of twilight for nigh on a moment.

Frodo rubbed at a drop of ink on the table. "Yes, I mean...that's fine with me."

"You look at bit flushed," said Bilbo, touching Frodo's brow briefly. 

"I just need a walk," said Frodo, standing up. "I'll go now." 

Bilbo's eyebrows quirked. "Don't be long in the stationers," he said, by which he meant that Frodo should not spend all his allowance there.

"Yes, Uncle," murmured Frodo as Bilbo left the room. 

*

Frodo let the air rush from his lungs as he leant against his bedroom door. He was acting like a young lovesick tweener. Sam would be Bag End's full-time gardener, would be at Bag End most days from dusk till dawn. It was a fine thing, Frodo knew, to be able to gaze at Sam at his pleasure, yet it would be a most exquisite torture as well. 

Frodo pulled out the envelope and studied it. Where should he put the letter so Sam would find it? A place the gardener would see it as soon as possible.

Frodo strode over to his bedroom window and looked out. A wonderfully sweet, aromatic smell lifted to his nose, as wholesome as freshly baked bread. In plain sight was a wheelbarrow, its wooden belly empty. As good as any place to hide the letter! Bilbo would not look inside, nor anyone but Sam.

Frodo crept to the hall door and pressed his ear against it. He could hear Sam's and Bilbo's voices faintly in the kitchen. It seemed Sam was speaking to Bilbo about when he should plant the potato seedlings sprouting in the greenhouse.

Quietly Frodo opened the door, snagging a shopping basket on the way. Quick as a wink he dashed out the door and into the garden. 

He found himself in front of the wheelbarrow in two minds about his letter. The letter might blow away. Frodo smiled wryly as he imagined Lotho, or the Gaffer finding it tumbling down Bagshot Row. But there were only three hobbits in the Westfarthing who could read elvish: just he, Sam, and Bilbo, of course. 

Frodo searched the ground, fingers eventually enclosing around a smooth egg-shaped stone. He stood up and looked around the garden. No one was about. 

Pressing the envelope spontaneously to his lips, he put it carefully into the wheelbarrow and placed the stone on top. Then, without a backwards glance, he walked out the gate and down the lane, blushing brightly. 

No going back now: Sam would come out to the garden again soon, and would discover the letter. 

What would he think?

The gentlehobbit sighed, placing his hand on his cheek.

As Frodo walked along the path, he smiled at the children playing tig on the field just below Bag End. Being lithe and quick, he had often been chosen to be 'it', the one who must give chase, 'tigging' each hobbit, who then must lie still, collapsed onto the ground till everyone was caught.

"Hoy, Mr. Frodo!" A young boy, perhaps twelve seasons old, jogged up to Frodo, his plump face freckled, his nose snub. 

"Good Morning, Master Smallburrow!" said Frodo. 

"Where you going, Mr. Frodo?" Brown-green eyes watched Frodo thoughtfully. 

"Just the market I'm afraid." Frodo waved the basket on his arm.

"Ah." The boy shook his cinnamon-coloured head. He hitched up his breeks, wiped at his sweaty brow. "Is Sam up at the Hill gardening? He promised me he'd show me a bird's nest he found in a tree somewhere 'round here."

Now Frodo found this conversation to his liking. "That's very nice of Sam, to take an interest. He often does, you know." 

"Yessir. He talks a lot about what interests you."

"Really?" Frodo felt his cheeks warm. 

The boy nodded. "Aye. Says that you tell him stories 'bout elves and dragons and things like that." Robin Smallburrow paused, chewing on the insides of his cheeks. "Would you tell me elf stories, sir? If you're willing."

"One day," said Frodo, grinning broadly. "But now I need to go to the market."

Robin cocked his head and smiled, fingering a curl. "Good day to you, Mr. Frodo."  
"Good day to you, Little Master."

The hobbitlad turned on his heel, running back across the field to his friends. 

*

The market was bustling by the time Frodo arrived. Stalls lined each side of Hobbiton Square, sandwiching the crowd of hobbits between them. The carcasses of chickens, pigs and cows hung proudly on hooks; apples and pears, potatoes and carrots, mushrooms and tomatoes were stacked and piled neatly to present an appetising appearance. Thick brown loaves of bread, cream buns and gleaming apple tarts were the pride of the baker's stall, while farmers displayed fat white eggs and bottles of creamy-white milk. 

Matrons dragged crying children by the hand -- or by the ear if need be -- whilst they scoured the stalls for provisions. A hobbitlad was tugging at the bridle of a sow of large girth, cursing loudly as it dug its trotters into the dirt, refusing to be moved. Hobbits cradled mugs of ale to test its sharpness despite the early hour. Merchants shouted out prices, competing against each other and adding to the din.

The market, with its loudness and commotion reminded Frodo of Brandy Hall, where he'd spent a greater part of his childhood. Oh, how Aunt Esme's mouth trembled between a frown and a smile, and Uncle Sara's bark-brown eyes glittered with amusement after he'd been hauled before them once more for another escapade. 

Frodo shifted his basket to his other arm. He was sure his relations had been amazed when he agreed to settle into the peace and quiet of Hobbiton with his cousin Bilbo. 

The inhabitants of Hobbiton knew Bilbo Baggins as adventurer, wizard-friend and jewel-taker (so it was said) but they also knew him as a good master, free with his money when it came to helping poor hobbits, and spoke to Bilbo's heir (for the most part) with good cheer.

As if to remind him of his youthful indiscretions, a sudden flurry parted the crowd, and out rushed a small lad, yelping in delight, eyes flashing as he dodged the flustered hobbits. Then a merchant pushed his way out of the milling hobbits -- the baker, Frodo recognized -- cursing loudly and jabbing a spoon into the air. Frodo felt his lips twitch, and sent a heartfelt _good luck_ in the direction where the lad had scampered. 

"Frodo Baggins!"

Inwardly Frodo groaned, feeling his gut twist at the shrill voice of his Aunt Lobelia. He turned slowly and gave her a friendly greeting. 

"Humph." Lobelia looked him up and down with sharp grey eyes. "Nice to see you doing something useful. Where is that cousin of yours?" 

"Bilbo and I are both well, thank you," said Frodo coolly, answering the unspoken, and most probably unthought question. "How are Lotho and Otho faring?"

"Very well." She gave a curt nod, knitting her brows. "I walked past Bag End today. Your smial is looking pleasant."

"I daresay Bag End has the finest garden in the Westfarthing," Frodo said with some pride.

"I suppose that's due to the Gamgees. I told Otho that he should have offered Hamfast more to leave Bilbo, but sadly my husband fails to see the merit that might be brought to our smial by having a well turned out garden." 

Frodo ducked his head to hide his smile, recalling the choice words Hamfast Gamgee had spoken for Lobelia's offer of employment. 

"If we can't have the Gaffer," Lobelia continued, "do you suppose that youngest, that Samwise would care to have a garden to tend of his own?" 

Frodo was too amazed to speak, and then noticed Lobelia staring him down, tapping her foot impatiently. "I don't think he would have time: Master Hamfast has retired."

"Retired you say?" A thin eyebrow arched. "Well. I suppose the Bagginses of Bag End have the best of everything yet again." And she walked off, her skirts fluttering about her.

When she had disappeared into the crowd, Frodo consulted his list, feeling more than a little put-off, wondering for the one hundred-and-eleventy-first time when the feud between the Sackville-Bagginses and Bagginses had begun -- and if it could be mended. 

Twine and mint sauce he could find easily enough in the marketplace, and it was a little walk further down the road to the bookshop for quills and parchment, but where to find the paddle? Frodo chuckled softly. 

Frodo had secured the goods he needed from the marketplace, and began walking down Hobbiton Lane to the bookshop. Small clouds of dust rose as he strode past the shops -- a tailor, a salter, a vintner whose dark bottles of wine crowded the shopwindow. The noon sun felt good on the back of his neck, and Frodo felt a smile of anticipation curling his lips.

The stationer's bell clanged loudly as he pushed the door open. A grey-haired, moon-faced hobbit rested his elbows easily on the counter. The shop had a musty, vaguely sweet smell, its shelves of papers and books neat and tidy.

"Young Mr. Baggins! You haven't stopped reading, have you?"

"You know I couldn't, Mr. Willow," laughed Frodo, his eyes drifting over the shelves. 

"Aye, that's good. Might go out of business if you did that. And what may I do for you today?"

"Two quills and a stack of parchments, please. And I might have a look around." Frodo had spotted what looked like a pile of new books. He had two silver pennies spare in his pocket. 

"Very good, Master Frodo." Mr. Willow disappeared into the back of the shop, a moment later reappearing with a ream of parchments in his arms. "And are you and Mr. Bilbo well?"

"Both fine, thank you," said Frodo examining a book. Its cover was made of brown leather; sweeping gold letters ran over its surface. A thrill of something close to elation fled up the young hobbit's spine. 

"Where did you find this, Mr. Willow?"

"Eh?" Mr. Willow looked over Frodo's shoulder. "Oh, a travelling hobbit sold it to me, a few days ago now." 

Frodo considered the tome. "Can you read the letters?" he asked.

"Aye, I can read them easily enough, but what tongue it's in I wouldn't know."

Frodo chuckled, glad at Mr. Willow's lack of knowledge. For the title, as best as he could translate it, was "Musings on Pleasure". An interesting title by any standards. And from a cursory glance at the table of contents, interesting to translate.

"It's elvish, that's enough for Bilbo. I suppose I'll take it with me," Frodo said, effecting nonchalance.

Mr. Willow peered at the cover. "Usually I'd sell a book like this for two silver pennies, but for you, Master Frodo, I'll half it to one." 

"Thank you, Mr. Willow," Frodo grinned, opening his pocketbook, knowing he overpaid, knowing that the book might be worth far more in other terms. 

The sunshine was almost blinding as Frodo stepped out onto the road. By the position of the sun, he judged it to be past lunchtime -- maybe half past one. But he felt no hunger, in fact his stomach now squirmed like he had swallowed coils of grass snakes. 

Frodo now realised he would need to go back to Bag End, back to Sam. 

_Sam might be reading his letter at this very moment._

He gripped the basket handle tightly. Could he be wrong? Had he somehow misconstrued Sam's one-way conversation yesterday; somehow twisted it into a wishful hobbit's fancy?

The walk back up the Hill took him up past a large field squeezed between Bagshot Row and Bag End, at its centre a large tree with glossy leaves that floated to the ground in orange and brown shades each autumn. A twinge of pain stabbed at his thigh as he rounded the final corner to Bag End. Frodo realised that he hadn't been for a long stroll for a while -- in fact it had been at least two weeks since he'd stumped to _The Green Dragon_ with Bilbo to enjoy new drawn ale and a pipe. 

Frodo drew a hand across his brow. The exertion of walking up the Hill had, along with the striking afternoon sun, plastered his dark curls flat and wet on his forehead, and hung beads of sweat about his throat. 

Frodo pushed open the gate, loosening his damp shirt that stuck uncomfortably to his skin. He shut his eyes, part of him hoping he wouldn't bump into Sam, part of him hoping his torment would be over -- for better or worse.

A huff and clatter broke into Frodo's thoughts. Eyes downcast and cheeks high pink, Sam hastily picked up the bucket that had somehow slipped from his fingers. Water stained the path, as well as the hem of Frodo's trousers. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam murmured, hiding his eyes with sun-gold eyelashes.

"Sam?" Frodo asked, puzzled. 

Sam lifted his chin, and Frodo could discern a slight tremble touching his lips. Brown eyes regarded him with something Frodo couldn't make out. Frodo's heart thumped against his ribs. Why was Sam looking at him like that? 

"Nothing, Mr. Frodo," Sam muttered, blushing. "I'll go finish watering the garden." And he edged away from the gentlehobbit as if he daren't look at him again.

Frodo kept the slight frown on his face till Sam disappeared behind Bag End. 

He must have read the letter!

Frodo closed his eyes for a moment, seeing dashes of red and orange in his panic.

Frodo immediately went to the wheelbarrow and saw, lying inside, still in place where he had left it this morning, his letter, edges fluttering, held fast by the stone.

Sam had probably read it and put it back, showing him what he thought of Frodo's unseemly advances. Frodo despaired. He really ought to take it right now, screw it up and toss it into the fire. Let it burn, let it smoke and fall to ashes, like his heart.

"Frodo!"

The green door opened, and out stepped Bilbo, pepper-and-salt hair untidy. "Come in, come in, lad."

Bilbo ushered Frodo inside. Frodo looked desperately toward the wheelbarrow, but Bilbo was closing the door, and it slid from his sight.

Bilbo took the basket, and peered inside. "Ah, good lad. Mint sauce, new quills -- did you forget something?"

"Couldn't find a boat paddle," Frodo mumbled. 

"Whatever would you want that for?" Bilbo asked, lifting out the bottle of sauce. 

Frodo handed him the shopping list without comment. While his older cousin pondered it, Frodo slipped the elvish book under his own weskit.

"I'll just be a moment," said Frodo. A great ache rived his belly, grating at his insides. 

Bilbo waved a hand and strode towards the hallway. Frodo turned and walked with trembling steps toward his bedroom. He shut the door softly, stepping into the cool shadow of the corner of his room.

Perhaps he could squeeze out the hall door and fetch back the letter. 

_Is it better to know and not wait in vain? I know the truth at least. It is not me who Sam loves _thought Frodo. _Does it make it any easier to bear? Who could it be? And I cannot bear to think of Sam in such pain. If I cannot have my wish, I might make his come true._

Frodo pressed his hands to his eyes, staying the tears that threatened. Every shred of his fearlessness from the morning had gone, as insubstantial as mist. 

But when he looked out the window the letter and wheelbarrow had disappeared.

~*~

_To be continued on Monday…_


	3. Monday: Eyeopener

**3. Monday: Eye-opener.**

It was not till the sky painted a thin tint of orange in the east that Frodo fell asleep. Most of the night he had spent staring at the wainscotting aglow in the milky moonlight. He wondered what Sam was thinking, what he had done with the letter. Had Sam clutched it to his breast in delight, or cast it into the fire till the words were naught but ashes stirring in the fireplace?

Frodo awoke with a start, sheets clumped around his middle, naked breast dewed with fine droplets of sweat after a night of tossing and turning. Warm sunshine filtered through the curtains and fanned out over the carpet. 

Frodo strained to hear the sound of Sam, whistling past his window, or preparing the breakfast. But the smial was strangely quiet, not even the birds or bees sang their melodies outside in the garden.

A painful thought hammered Frodo's heart. Sam wasn't coming back! Maybe Sam had told the Gaffer of Bilbo's heir, who had forgotten his place, and the younger hobbit had been promptly sent to garden at the Bracegirdles. 

Frodo almost fell out of bed, slipping his dressing gown around himself as he stumbled to the door. He heard a noise in the kitchen. Bilbo! What would Bilbo say? Would he send him back to Brandy Hall? For scaring the young gardener with love letters? 

Frodo leaned on the wall for a moment, bracing his resolve and body against the cool plaster. He took a deep breath and smoothed down his unruly curls.

"Bilbo, I'm..." Frodo stepped into the kitchen, wildly trying to think of some excuse. He'd gotten into the Winyards perhaps, drunkenly writing the letter as a jest.

But it was not an old hobbit with a faint dusting of grey in his hair who was sitting at the table. 

"Sam!" Frodo cried.

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam gasped in return, jolting the tea mug that he held in one hand. "I weren't taking a liberty, sir! Mr. Bilbo said to help myself while I made your breakfast."

Frodo sat down weakly as Sam picked up a tea towel and mopped up the spill. Then he poured steaming water over tealeaves in the green and gold patterned cup that was Frodo's favourite, stirring in a dollop of milk and two spoonfuls of sugar. 

"Just the way you like it," he added with a nervous smile as he placed it in front of Frodo.

"Where is Bilbo?" asked Frodo, taking a sip of tea, even though he knew it would scald his tongue.

"Told me he was going on a shopping trip to Frogmorton, and that he would be home in the afternoon." Sam cracked two eggs into a frying pan and began stirring them briskly. 

"Oh," Frodo replied.

They lapsed into silence. Soon the kitchen was awash with the scent of perfectly scrambled eggs and tangy herbs. But Frodo could only pick at his breakfast as Sam washed the dishes, humming under his breath.

"How is it at home?" Frodo asked haltingly, putting a herb-speckled piece of egg in his mouth.

"Ah, the Gaffer's hands are getting better, I reckon; that liniment's doing him well." Sam took a plate and stretched on his toes to put it back on its perch on the high shelf. One of his shirttails came untucked, giving Frodo a glimpse of sun-warm skin.

"Sam..." Frodo near moaned in his desire and quickly stabbed at a bit of egg, stuffing it into his mouth to stop himself.

"Sir?"

"Nothing, Sam." Frodo pushed his plate back, desperately trying to ignore the ache that flew to his groin. "That was delicious, but I really must go out."

"Mr. Frodo, haven't I served you well?"

"Of course, you always do," Frodo said, unable to hide a desperate frown. "I just need some air. I'll go get dressed." Frodo was having difficulty breathing, as if a boulder was sitting on his chest. 

He rushed to his room, throwing on his clothes, wondering if he would ever be able to look at Sam and not feel a helpless longing to kiss every inch of golden skin. Upset and troubled, Frodo needed to get away from Bag End, be on his own, to think -- well, to worry as the case may be. And he knew the perfect place.

*

Frodo tramped through the forest, through wildflowers growing between tall stalks of grass. The trees stood silent around him, filtering the sunlight so it hit the tree trunks and grass at odd angles, sparking gold flares. At last he reached a particular tree and climbed the rope ladder he found there.

Frodo had built a type of treehouse in the forest just to the east of the Hill. He had constructed it a few months after moving into Bag End with Bilbo, who had never questioned Frodo's request for great slabs of wooden planks from Bindbole Wood. The woodworkers became accustomed to Frodo visiting their workshop and asking odd questions, but never gave trouble. It had taken Frodo a good two months of hard work to finish the platform, and he had to bear chapped knees and swollen thumbs and sore feet with good grace. But it had been worth the wait, for Frodo came to the flet whenever he was able, to read or write or daydream.

He had gotten the idea from one of Bilbo's stories, which told of elves living amongst the branches of tall trees. These platforms were called flets. Frodo's flet was very much like an elven flet: just a wooden platform reached by a rope ladder and a screen that could be moved according to the direction of the wind.

Usually he brought a blanket for comfort and warmth, but he had been in such a rush to leave the suffocating air of Bag End he had utterly forgotten it. So he lay back on the bare boards and gazed into the canopy of leaves.

Frodo wished he had not committed his heart to parchment, baring his very soul, but what was done was done. Sam now had the letter. Undoubtedly he had read it -- why else would he be acting so nervous around him? 

Frodo put his hands behind his head, easing the ache on his neck. Maybe Sam was too scared to speak with Frodo. He had mentioned service this morning -- did he fear to lose his place if he didn't give Frodo what he wanted? 

Frodo rolled over onto his stomach, hiding his face in the fold of his arms. He remembered the first time he had met Samwise Gamgee.

_A cold winter's morning, the kind where mist still curls around talking mouths at noon, and the sun struggles to push its light through the hazy silver clouds. From a tree a bird twittered and flew off, gliding past the dew-swept grass and over the Hill. _

_The gravel crunched beneath the footsteps of two hobbits walking past the cosy-looking smials along the road, who kept glancing up at the large gardens and wide paths of Bag End._

_Frodo stuck his walking stick into the gravel and waved at mother and son, both of them graced with the same sandy-gold hair. "Hullo," he said, smiling. "It's cold today, isn't it?"_

_The woman nodded, disentangling her hand from her son's chubby fingers. "You must be Mr. Frodo new come from Brandy Hall! Don't he look just like Mr. Bilbo, Sam-lad?"_

_The little boy nodded his head in agreement, pushing a thumb into his mouth. Freckles jot over his nose, umber against the light brown of his skin. His brown eyes spark with bright curiosity._

_"And you must be Mrs. Gamgee and Samwise," Frodo laughed. "Bilbo has nothing but praise for the care Master Hamfast shows for the garden. And the way he advises him about potatoes."_

_"Aye, Mr. Frodo, Ham will be well pleased to hear such," said Mrs. Gamgee. "And how are you settlin' into Bag End? I 'spect it's a change from your life before." _

_"I like it very well, Mrs. Gamgee, very well." Frodo looked downward. "And how do you like it, Samwise?"_

_Sam's eyes opened wide as Frodo knelt down to his level. "It's my home, Misser Frodo." He thought for a moment. "Has Mr. Bilbo taken you to see the elves?"_

_"Sam!" Mrs. Gamgee admonished._

_"Oh, that's all right," laughed Frodo. "He's promised he would, but for now I only have my books full of stories and songs about the Eldar race, Sam, if you'd like to hear them one day."_

_"O ma! Can I?" Sam tugged at his mother's hand._

_"We'll see, Sam. You know you've enough to learn about taking care of the gardening without filling your head full of such nonsense."_

_Sam's face fell. "All right, ma."_

_Frodo straightened up, flicking a quick wink towards Sam. "Your mother knows best, Samwise, but if you've ever a mood for nonsense, you know where to find me."_

_Even though Sam was only nine, his expression toward Frodo was serious. "Aye, Mr. Frodo," he said, and their contract was made. _

_Frodo knew Sam was watching him with his deep hazel eyes until he disappeared down the bend in the road._

Only a few days later Sam had accompanied the Gaffer to Bag End, and, whilst he was gardening, Frodo had read to Sam a story of the elven princess Idril of the Hidden Kingdom of Gondolin, till the lad's head nodded into Frodo's arms and he fell quietly asleep.

Sam was bold enough, in time, to ask Bilbo if he could learn his letters. Bilbo had had to talk long with the Gaffer over a mug of thick brew before he consented to those lessons. Soon Sam was able to read quite well, yet he often asked Frodo to read to him while they lay under a tree laden with plump, red apples; or by the fire while the last rays of sunshine slid past the hills in the west; until Sam was a tween.

Frodo sat up suddenly, pounding the deck with the flat of his hand in frustration. He owed it to Sam and their friendship to tell the truth; there had never been secrets between them before.

He needed to know how Sam felt. Even if it was only _I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo, but I wasn't speaking 'bout you._ Yes, he would go and speak to Sam. Now. 

Uttering a silent prayer to the Lady, Frodo climbed down the ladder.

*

Sam had his head between two boxwoods as Frodo approached him. Clumps of weeds were scattered around his feet. 

"Sam?" Frodo said in a tremulous voice.

The young hobbit leapt in surprise and was caught in the brush, so he had to scoot out backwards. Sam brushed his hands over his breeches and gave Frodo a smile. "Hullo, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Bilbo's not home yet."

"Sam, I need to tell you something, for my own heart's ease."

Sam's face grew pale. "Mr. Frodo--"

Frodo felt his chest constrict. "Sam, I must have my say. Then you can tell me how you feel about it."

"Right, sir." Sam sighed deeply.

For so long Frodo had rehearsed how he was going to say this. Now he was tongue-tied.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam gently reminded him, standing so the afternoon sun coated honey-warmness over his skin. 

Frodo licked his lips. "Sam, just...sit." He gestured to Sam to sit on the grass.

They both sat down, Sam with his legs drawn up, Frodo cross-legged. Frodo combed blades of grass with his fingers, trying to garner his thoughts to make some kind of sense. 

"Sam, do you think of me as only your Master-to-be?" Frodo sucked in a breath. "Do you ever look on me as just a hobbit lad, like yourself?" he asked, glancing at Sam, hoping Sam would say something...anything...

But Sam looked puzzled. "Sir?"

"I wanted to know how you felt about my feelings -- what I wrote in the letter." Frodo took a breath. 

"The letter?" Sam replied, confused.

Frodo chanced a glace at those perfect, earth-brown eyes. He thought he saw a glint of something -- perhaps a sun-ray -- burst in those eyes for but a moment. He continued: "The letter, Sam. You've read it." Frodo's voice wobbled. 

"I'm sorry sir, I've had no letter. Did you write to me?"

It felt to Frodo as if the grass beneath him had opened up and was now yawning a great black hole that was sucking him in, closer and closer. And he had no chance to flee from the swirling nothingness. 

"The letter I left for you in the wheelbarrow, it's gone now so I thought..." Frodo closed his eyes against sudden panic.

"And what would you be writing to me about that you couldn't say aloud?" Sam asked.

It was all hushed about them. Frodo stared into the sky now, he dare not look into Sam's eyes. What would he see?

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam's were words harsh and breathless, as if he'd run to the Three-Farthing Stone and back. "Please, look at me."

Frodo slowly turned his head towards Sam, feeling numb and sick and more scared than he'd ever been in his life. 

"Does it have summat to do with not looking at you as I should? As other than Bilbo's heir? Oh, how did you know?" Sam's eyes weren't awash with disgust or hate, but with fear.

Frodo choked back a sob. "Sam, we are friends, we should be able to say anything to each other." And he wondered whom he was trying to convince.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut tight for a moment, then he looked at Frodo with eyes moist and scared. "I know I can trust you, Mr. Frodo, you'd be kind to me, even in my foolishness. I would never speak, but you seem to have seen right through me."

Frodo suddenly felt his eyes awash in tears, that Sam could trust him. He had never been given a higher compliment. "You can speak now," he prompted gently.

"Mr. Frodo...I don't know how you can say that you're a hobbit lad like me, there's never been as beautiful and rare a creature as yourself -- an elf prince more like." And Sam bit his lip.

Swallowing the gasp that rushed up from his throat, Frodo said, "Samwise Gamgee?"  
"I'm telling you how I feel," Sam said firmly. He brushed a tear from his eye. "I can't help misself. I love you."

A thought came to Frodo, tumbling over his lips. "Sam, you're not saying this because -- because you think I want to hear it?"

"No, sir." Sam shook his head. "I know you're not...others..." He paused suddenly. "You want to hear it?"

"Sam." Frodo took a sharp breath. "I love you too, you know."

Sam's face flushed. "Oh, sir, that were right nice of you to say. But in for a penny, in for pound -- you might be mistaking my use of the word 'love'."

"Oh?" murmured Frodo, feeling weak. "What were you meaning by it?"

Now Sam took on that expression when he was struggling with a particularly deep buried weed -- determination, layered with some pride. Frodo thought he had never seen the young hobbit looked finer. "Well, love, like wanting to hold and kiss -- and lay with one another bare skin to bare skin."

Rivers of warmness spread under Frodo's skin, lighting every nerve-ending, and his face took on a pink glowing. 

"Sam, I want that with you."

Sam gasped just as Frodo leaned forward, as if falling toward him, and caught his shoulders.

"I've never seen a hobbit as brave as you, Sam. Here I've been in agonies trying to tell you--"

"Hush now." Sam brushed Frodo's face with his work-hardened hands, catching the saltwater tears as they mottled Frodo's cheek. With his finger, Sam traced the hollow below Frodo's eye, grazing his lower lashes. 

"So beautiful, sir, you're just so..." Sam exhaled a sigh of pleasure.

"So are you." Frodo could almost topple into those brown eyes, looking so fiercely into his own, so hungrily...

"We'll not argue about it."

"But..." Frodo tried to think straight, but it was all too difficult as Sam rubbed tiny circles on his palm. "The letter..."

"Sir, if you don't mind me sayin', does it matter now we've declared ourselves?" Sam lifted Frodo's hand up to his lips, kissing each knuckle gently. 

"No...oh, Sam...no...not really." Frodo's breath snagged, his heart throbbed in his chest. 

Everything about him seemed to melt, every anxiety, every care or hurt. Except for Sam, staring at him, the need in his eyes unmistakable...why hadn't he ever seen it before?

"Oh, sir."

Whether he leaned forward, or Sam did, Frodo never knew, but the arm's length between them disappeared, and all Frodo could see was Sam's face, the heat flushing his cheeks, his lips trembling like flower petals.

"Sam, don't call me 'sir', not anymore."

"Yes...Mr. Frodo."

"And not 'mister' either." Frodo frowned, which was odd since he was grinning at the same time, a breath away from his love's mouth.

Now Frodo could smell Sam, sweet with earth and apples and sunshine. He was falling, toppling into those warm brown eyes, now dark...

"Frodo? Frodo-lad!"

The world broke asunder. Frodo and Sam jumped back, and by the time Bilbo had rounded the bushes, Sam had jumped back behind the bush, shaking.

"Bilbo." Frodo's voice was a mere croak. 

Bilbo's arms were laden with packages. "Come along and help me, lads. I've been carrying these from Frogmorton." Sam took the packages to the kitchen, while Frodo was regaled with every piece of local gossip Bilbo had gathered from the marketplace. 

"...and so Roderic's in a bit of a mess now, the fool," Bilbo finished with a laugh.

"What are these?" asked Frodo, concentrating on the square packages, anything to keep him from looking at Sam.

"Books, Frodo, as you can see! You've learnt most of the Silvan language, and now you are ready for the more subtle and lyrical -- not to mention difficult, Quenya. Should keep you, er, occupied."

Frodo's eyes locked onto Sam's at that moment, despite his best intentions. He knew that Sam was thinking the same thing as he: it was not books that could keep Frodo busy but other, more appealing activities...

Slow, lazy embraces lying on the grass; sweet, stolen kisses behind the shed...

Frodo fingered the string wrapping up the parcels. "Bilbo...thank you." He couldn't think of anything else to say. 

"Quite all right, lad," said Bilbo. "Now, it's getting late. Why don't you go on home early, Sam? As a treat Frodo and I will take supper at _The Green Dragon_."

Sam's shoulders sagged. "Thank you, Mr. Bilbo," he said in a breath. "Goodnight Mr. Bilbo. Goodnight--" He looked at Bilbo's heir quickly, recalling his promise not to call Frodo by his titles anymore, yet not aloud to call him by name, either.

Then Sam walked out the door. 

Bilbo watched Frodo as he looked after the gardener. Out of the corner of his eye, Frodo could see Bilbo had one eyebrow arched. 

"Put away these books, could you Frodo? I'm going to wash up and get changed. Then we shall go to supper. There's a good lad." With a pat on Frodo's shoulder, Bilbo left him alone. 

Frodo sighed and began to unload the packages. He had had the merest chance to unbreech the wall of his heart and confess his feelings for Sam. While he could now be relieved that his desires were returned with good measure, the hobbit could not help but feel the day had turned out rather anticlimactic.

~*~

Continued on Trewsday...

_Author's Note: I would just like to thank everybody who's reviewed this story, or if you haven't, thanks for reading anyway! I hope I wasn't too cruel in this chapter…_


	4. Trewsday: Forgetmenot

_If you wish, you can read this chapter on my website (check my profile), which includes a beautiful picture drawn by Trilliah._

**4. Trewsday: Forget-me-not**

Frodo woke afresh the next morning, like he'd bathed in cool rainwater and was now clean and pure. It was early, for a silver light ran soft over the walls of his room, chasing out the dark shadows. Quickly he wrapped a robe around himself and pushed open the shutters.

A mist rolled over the meadows below Bag End, shrouding the smials of Bagshot Row. Sam would be in Number Three, cooking breakfast for his family, humming as he tossed the eggs in the skillet. Then he would come whistling up the Row, his breath steaming in the crisp morning air. Frodo would rush to meet him and then...

Frodo could hardly believe it was only a few hours ago that Sam was kissing his hand...telling Frodo he loved him...a fire so fierce blazing in his eyes, brighter than any star...

Would they have a chance today to kiss? Yesterday he had been so close to Sam's lips, so close to feeling them meet his own, falling towards each other as if drawn by the same impulse that brings waves to crash on the shore.

And Bilbo had interrupted.

Frodo shook his head to rid himself of his lingering frustration. 

As soon as Frodo had finished unpacking the parcels, Bilbo had promptly taken Frodo's arm and steered him out the door and to _The Green Dragon_. All through that meal Bilbo acted odd -- more odd than usual, fidgeting with the cutlery, offering to cut Frodo's chop as if he were a bairn; he even suggested that Frodo might like to accompany him on a ramble, a long journey to the South Farthing. 

Frodo only shook his head and finished his chop.

When they returned to Bag End it was much too late for Frodo to walk to the Gamgees' smial and ask if Sam would like to take an evening stroll. So Frodo curled up in his bed, trying to remember every breathless moment of his meeting with Sam; trying to steady his fluttering heart, for it seemed it could almost take flight and burst from his chest.

At last he fell asleep, slipping gently into dreams of Sam holding him with strong arms, gently dotting kisses on the hollow of his neck.

Frodo felt a grin slide over his face. Bilbo would want to know what had wrought this sea-change, yet Frodo would hold the source of his happiness close, for the time being at least.

Bilbo's heir watched the lane, frowning when Sam didn't appear at the bend of the road at his particular time. Perhaps Frodo would take a morning stroll, 'accidentally' meeting his gardener on the way. 

Flinging off his robe and pulling on his breeches, shirt and weskit, Frodo left his room. 

"Frodo?"

Frodo (and his heart) skidded to a halt. Bilbo sat in the parlour, puffing on his pipe as faint light threaded through the window. The fire had burnt low, now breathing curls of smoke that twisted up the chimney in wisps. 

"Frodo-lad, I would like to talk to you."

Frodo sat down on a sofa opposite Bilbo. He noticed a tremor in his fingers and quickly pocketed them.

"Yes, sir?"

"Frodo..." Bilbo stared at something out the window. "I want you to know how much I care for you. I've never regretted taking you as my heir. I can understand that you get lonely here. But I never...never imagined...are you sure, Frodo?"

"Sure of what, Bilbo?"

"Frodo." Bilbo's eyes softened as they met Frodo's. "I found the letter."

"Uncle!" Frodo gasped. "That letter was for Sam's eyes alone. It was private, it had his name on it. How could you read it?"

"Yes, I did see it had Sam's name on it. I may be old, but I'm not blind yet." Bilbo held up his hand. "Don't speak, lad. Just listen to me. As I said, I'm not blind. Frodo, you might not have realised, but I have seen the way you have looked at Sam over the last few weeks. It never occurred to me that you would have such feelings for him. Now, I know you've tumbled with a few lads before -- don't blush, my boy."

"Oh, Bilbo," whispered Frodo, feeling his stomach settle somewhere around his feet. "What happened to my letter?"

A shadow passed over Bilbo's face, and he dipped his fingers into his pocket. "I don't know, lad. I must have lost it somewhere in the study. I suppose it will turn up." Bilbo sighed heavily, massaging his temple with his fingertips. "Don't you think that there are more appropriate ways to show your affection for Sam?"

Frodo cringed back into his chair. "I can't help how I feel."

"That's as may be, but the gardener's son is not part and parcel of the garden; you can't go plucking him like a ripe apple off a tree for your own gratification." And here the older hobbit paused to consider his metaphor, then continued on. "Sam has adored you since he was a bairn, do you think this is the proper way to repay his trust?"

"But I don't want just a tumble!" Frodo cried. "I love Sam! I want to spend the rest of my life with him."

"Frodo!" Bilbo growled, teeth clenching around the stem of his pipe, and the smoke issuing from it made him appear as irate as a dragon. "Use your head! You can't assume all lads have needs like yours. Maybe at Brandy Hall a few lads play at loving, but not in respectable parts of the Shire like Hobbiton." 

"But Sam does need me in the same way I need him!" Frodo tried to explain, leaning forward now with his hands before him, palms upward.

Bilbo only shook his head. "If you told Sam of your desires he'd be torn between his care of you and his duty to his family -- if you truly love the lad you'll never force him to choose." 

At this Frodo buried his head in his hands. While he did not fear that Sam loved him, he was beginning to see what the consequences of their relationship might lead to. "It's too late," he whispered. "Sam and I have declared ourselves to one another."

Bilbo choked. "But -- I thought since he didn't get the letter, you'd never say anything, at least not before I could knock some sense into you!"

"Bilbo," said Frodo, "I know you meant well, but it's not your choice, it's mine and Sam's alone." 

"That's where you're wrong, lad-of-mine." Bilbo took the pipe out of his mouth and knocked out the ash forcefully against the fire grate. "You know how much bother it's caused me living a bachelor's life -- I would hate to see such nasty rumours following you about on your daily walks. As like as not Lobelia would be around in a flash to check on your adoption papers once again!"

"I don't care about rumours or Lobelia, or even Bag End!" Frodo rose to his feet, face flushed with heightened emotion. "The only thing that matters is that Sam and I love each other."

Bilbo suddenly sagged back into his chair, looking aged; Frodo went across the room and knelt at his cousin's side, contrite.

Bilbo set his hand on Frodo's head. "You are allowed to cast aside what you have been given, but what of Sam and his family? Reputation is a hobbit's most important possession -- have a care for what Master Hamfast would think of you bedding his youngest son. Sam is far from his coming of age, and his father rightly has a say in where he will be placed. An angry Master Hamfast is fiercer than an angry Smaug I'm afraid." 

Frodo set his head down on his cousin's arm and wept silently.

"Frodo-lad," Bilbo said after a time. "Does Sam really share your feelings? Are you sure?"

Frodo nodded, face red and tear-streaked. "He told me. I'm sure it's for the right reasons." 

"I didn't want you to get hurt," said Bilbo, pulling a handkerchief from his breeches and blowing his nose loudly. "I didn't want you to feel the pain of rejection. What did he tell you?"

"He said he loved me," said Frodo, blushing. "That he wanted to..."

Bilbo chuckled. "I think I know. But," his eyes were serious, "just -- go carefully, please Frodo." And here the older hobbit fetched another handkerchief and wiped his young cousin's face. "I think both of you are too young, but I'll help you if I can." 

"Thank you Bilbo," Frodo laughed, a little shaken, but relieved, and threw his arms around the old hobbit. "I love you."

"Ahh, Frodo!" Bilbo pulled back. "You always say that when I give you what you want."

* 

After a breakfast of juicy sausages and thick toast, Bilbo set Frodo to work off some of his nervous energy in the study.

An hour later, Frodo dusted his hands, surveying his work. He had taken every single tome from the shelves and proceeded to dust every inch of the fine wood, occasionally coughing as he swallowed a mouthful of dust. 

Sam had arrived while Frodo and Bilbo were still at breakfast. He'd arrived all aflush, his hair still sleep-tousled. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bilbo," he'd gasped. "I slept in, I--" He stopped as his eyes met Frodo's.

Frodo grinned at the gardener as if he had brought the sun into the kitchen of Bag End, and Bilbo rolled his eyes. 

"Very well, Samwise Gamgee," said Bilbo, waving a piece of buttered toast. "You can start work in the garden."

"Yes, sir." With one wistful look at Frodo, Sam scampered out of the kitchen, bumping his shoulder on the door jamb as he left. And Frodo hadn't seen Sam since.

Now finished with his work, Frodo walked to his room, closing the door behind him. Frustration brought tears to his eyes. If he didn't see...touch...kiss Sam soon, he would burst. 

Frodo tilted his head up to the ceiling, bumping his head on the door. A sudden image of Sam rose to mind: his gardener on his knees in the grass, just a breath of distance separating them, the sunlight caught and held in his curls, his pink lips damp and inviting...

Frodo felt his desire rise (among other things). _Sam...Sam...my dear..._ He needed release...to stroke away the longing that had pooled up inside him since yesterday afternoon...

His hand groped for his breeches buttons, tight flesh stirring underneath, backside pressed hard against the door...

"Sir?"

Frodo yelped in surprise, wrenching his hand from the almost-undone button. Standing at the window with shears in hand was Sam, his face expressing something in between intense pleasure and embarrassed shock. 

"_Sam_!" Frodo felt a ripple spread beneath his chest. He crossed the space between them in quick strides, catching a breath as he realised Sam's eyes had not lost any of the fire of yesterday. He felt a sudden envy of the wind as it drew its fingers through Sam's sun-drenched hair.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you, sir," Sam whispered, leaning on the window box which was brimming with violet pansies and trails of ivy.

"Did you see me thinking of you, Sam?" Frodo blushed at the thought of his gardener watching him touch himself, wantonly pushing his backside against the door. 

The way Sam flushed and his eyes went dark proved that he had seen just that.

Frodo grasped the sill for support, feeling his knees buckle. The corner of Sam's mouth rose just a little and his eyes sparkled. Just looking at Sam's beautiful face could put Frodo in a near swoon. Frodo paused to breathe, lowering his eyes to Sam's chest. A scent rose from the hobbit beside him, fragrant and wholesome, like the first rain falling onto the earth after a summer drought. Frodo closed his eyes, to imbue his senses with it.

"Begging your pardon, -- but Lady -- you're beautiful," murmured the young gardener.

"Sam!" gasped Frodo, his eyes flying open. "When...when you look at me...when you say that...I can't think...it's like a dream..."

"'Tis not a dream. Would you -- like a kiss, then?" Sam looked up hopefully.

"Yes please, Sam!"

And Sam leaned forward, straining on his toes. His shears fell to the loam with a thud, along with Frodo's heart.

Frodo's mouth welcomed Sam's touch with a sigh. For a moment their lips met awkwardly, moving slow and clumsy, then Frodo tilted his head, tugging Sam's lower lip between his teeth, drinking him in like heady nectar. 

Frodo continued to plunder the sweetness of Sam's mouth as their tongues twined and mated. He ran his fingers through Sam's hair, drawing him deeper, wanting him to be closer. At last he knew what Sam tasted like: honey and moonbeams.

The breeze thrummed in Frodo's ears, or perhaps it was a moan buzzing past his lips, flowing down his entire body. A heat woke in his groin, stirring at every shudder, every tentative swipe of tongues, each quiet moan. He felt Sam canting towards him, felt the sill depress a straight line on his belly.

Desire flowed quick through his blood, and he pulled Sam nearer still, humming into his mouth like a bee settling upon a juice-filled flower. 

And now Sam's fingers slid over Frodo's neck, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles on the shadow of skin in front of Frodo's ears. Frodo felt Sam's fingers fondle the hair on his nape, unsteady yet demanding. Sam kissed him back with eagerness, tongue searching to explore the soft curves of Frodo's mouth. A thrill seemed to shiver up and down Frodo's skin, prickling, weaving a spell with the taste and smell and touch of...

"Frodo!" 

Frodo pulled back reluctantly, making a sound of dismay; Sam dropped his hand from Frodo's hair to the sill.

"I'm crushing the pansies," said Sam in a half gasp, his eyes strangely unfocussed, dropping to somewhere around Frodo's mouth. 

"I never cared much for pansies," croaked Frodo, wondering why Sam should take concern for the plants now, of all times. 

But perhaps it was for the best, for Frodo realized he was not strong enough to pull the handsome hobbit through the window and into his bedroom, and Sam could not come through the door and leave his work.

Sam and Frodo, in wordless accord, stood in their respective places and waited for their ardour to abate, which meant not looking at each other for a time, just panting in the still air.

When Frodo could look up again with a faint smile, he noticed a flower tucked in Sam's buttonhole. 

"What is that for?" he asked curiously.

"Oh." Sam's hand moved towards the flower, touching it briefly. "'Tis a forget-me-not, sir. 'Tis said that if you keep it, the one you love will never forget about you."

Frodo felt dizzy. "Do you think I could ever, _ever_ do that?"  
"Are you saying you love me?" Sam smiled broadly.

"_Yes_," Frodo said in a growl, clasping the window sill.

"Frodo." Sam twisted his hands with regret, though his face was shining. "I came to your window to say I've promised Mrs. Rumble I'd go and see to her turnip patch. I really oughta be going soon."

"Oh, Sam, I shan't keep you from your work." Frodo frowned, wondering if this was how it was going to be, the long hours waiting for the hobbit he loved to be done with his duties, while he paced grooves in the floors of Bag End with impatient strides.

Frodo trickled his fingers over Sam's weskit, and on impulse plucked the forget-me-not from its buttonhole. "All right. But you don't need this -- I shall wear it in hope that there's a hobbit who loves me and won't forget my kisses."

"My dear," breathed Sam. "I won't ever, not until the stars fall out of the sky."

Frodo brought the forget-me-not to his mouth, the petals light against his swollen lips. 

"Sir, I'm stepping out of place right now, but I'm mighty jealous of that flower." Sam's brown eyes shone with desire and mirth.

"And I'm awfully jealous of that window box," replied Frodo, grinning as Sam blushed. 

"Oh, Frodo." Sam shook his head sadly, quite aware of the place the window box was pressing. 

Frodo's shoulders sagged. "All right. You should be on your way."

Sam gazed desperately at Frodo. "Will I be seeing you?"

"Soon. _Very_ soon." 

Sam's eyes widened at Frodo's emphasis.

"Aye, sir -- Goodbye."

"Goodbye, dear Sam."

Frodo watched Sam walk rather drunkenly, and then pick up his feet to run down the path. 

Far off Frodo could see thick clouds above the Water, dotting the horizon with dollops of cream. The garden bloomed before him, rich greens, pale pinks, dusky oranges. Lovingly planted by his Sam. Sam who loved him. The proof was all around him: the fragrant flowers surrounding his window, the timorous expression on Sam's face, the stars in Sam's eyes...

Clutching the forget-me-not to his breast, Frodo whispered to it, "You have my heart."

*

Frodo stared moodily out the window. Pale purple streaked the sky, supplanted in places by slim wisps of pink. The garden now glowed silvery-white from the moon's light, the bright colours fading as the sun slid slowly beneath the horizon.

"My boy." A hand was laid on Frodo's shoulder. "A watched pot never boils." 

"I know," said Frodo, still flicking his eyes down the Row. But no figure ambled down its pebbled path.

"Frodo, look at me." Frodo turned to see Bilbo's grey eyes look into his sadly, wrinkles furrowing on his forehead. "Sam has responsibilities, Frodo-lad. His Gaffer's getting older...his sisters need to be cared for... Sometimes things don't work out like you want them to."

Frodo clenched and unclenched his fists. "I know, Bilbo. It's just--" he shook his head, collecting his thoughts. "I need to see Sam. I feel like I'm going mad."

Bilbo patted him on the shoulder good-naturedly. "Ah, the Took side's revealed itself," he laughed. "Oh, my boy! I've had enough experience to know how you feel. Frodo, you really must stop blushing at all this."

"Bilbo!"

"Yes, sorry. What was I saying? Or trying to say? Oh yes, you may find you will come second to Sam's other duties. You must be patient."

"Bilbo, I--" A sudden rush of love for the kindly old hobbit rose in Frodo's heart. "Thank you...for understanding." He took Bilbo's hand. "I couldn't ask for a kinder guardian."

"Us bachelor Bagginses need to stick together," sniffed Bilbo. "I wish you the best, lad. No matter what happens, I'll be here for you."

"Thank you," said Frodo.

"There aren't many people I truly care for in the Shire, Frodo. There's yourself, of course, various cousins and Master Hamfast for one. Yet my heart still yearns for adventure. I hear the Road calling." He shook his head and sighed.

"Bilbo?" Frodo clasped the older hobbit's hand.

"Don't mind me, lad," muttered Bilbo, taking a handkerchief from his pocket. "I'll be here awhile longer to look after you and curb your wild Tookish impulses. Would you care for a game of cribbage? I daresay it won't slake your need for a certain gardener's lad, but it will help pass the time."

Frodo's mouth twisted as he watched Bilbo stroll to the cupboard where the cards were kept.

~*~

_Continued on Hensday..._


	5. Hensday: Rain

**5. Hensday: Rain**

Patter, patter, patter, drip. Like a cat padding across thick carpet, rain splattered against the window in thick streams, zigzagging down the glass, pooling on the sill. Frodo glared at the gloomy, grey-jumbled sky, took a large bite of his biscuit and sighed. The biscuit tasted of soggy parchment on his tongue.

Bilbo clucked sympathetically, pushing a steaming cup of tea across the table. "Chamomile tea," he said. "It will make you feel better, Frodo."

"Thank you," muttered Frodo, enclosing his fingers around the tea mug, the heat burning the tips of his fingers. Now he glared at the table, as if the polished wood was somehow the source of his misfortune.

"Lad, these things happen," said Bilbo.

Frodo frowned.

"Sam can't work in the rain," Bilbo replied. "Surely you don't want him to catch a cold or worse?"

"Of course not." Frodo took a sip of tea. It slid down his throat tangy and hot, soothing tangled nerves and bunched muscles.

Bilbo turned to his boiled egg, slicing the top off with a butterknife, proceeding to shake salt over the runny yolk.

"It's not fair," whispered Frodo. He knew he sounded like a twelve-year-old. But all he could think of was that he wouldn't be seeing Sam today.

Bilbo let out a sigh. "If you're going to be like that, I shall keep to my study today."

"You do that anyway," Frodo shot back.

"And what of you, dear boy? Do you never stick your nose in a book for hours at a time?" Bilbo raised his eyebrows.

"I suppose."

They sat in silence, only the sound of rain and chewing cleaving the quiet. Frodo could feel Bilbo's eyes watching him contemplatively. Although he knew it was unfounded, Frodo felt irritated at the old hobbit.

Frodo stood up, hearing the chair scrape harshly across the floor. "You don't understand, do you, Bilbo?" he said quietly. "You don't--" Frodo stopped talking, knowing his voice would snap like a twig underfoot.

Bilbo held up his hand, as if resisting a tumult not unlike the wave that drowned Númenor. "Frodo."

"You don't recall what it is to be in love!"

"Are you in love?" asked Bilbo.

"What would you know about love? Who have you been in love with?"

"Frodo, that's not only impertinent, it's beside the point. I asked you the question."

Frodo stared at Bilbo for a moment, feeling his nails dig into his palms. He lifted his chin, defiant. "I don't care to be interrogated. I'm going for a walk."

"It's raining, lad," said Bilbo. 

"Good." Frodo shoved the chair beneath the table and strode outside.

*

Within a minute of walking down the garden path, Frodo was drenched. He could barely see more than a few feet ahead of him with the rain tumbling down in thick, grey sheets. 

Frodo pushed a lank curl from his brow and followed the path a little further, walking off to find one of his favourite places at Bag End: a large oak tree, hidden from the path by a gathering of privets and lilacs; secluded on its other side by a boxthorn hedge. 

He pressed up against the wet bark, tipping his head back, watching the twinkling, green-gold canopy. Occasionally a plop of water would fall from the glistening leaves onto his face, trickling down his body.

He had been awful to Bilbo; he really should go in and apologise, and yet...

Frodo banged his heel angrily against the oak. Yesterday he had finally tasted Sam's lips, and now the need was so strong; to be with Sam, to laugh and smile with him. 

And if that included touching and kissing Sam, that would be -- Frodo closed his eyes -- magical.

The hobbit stuck out his tongue, and after a moment a drip landed, welcome, on the pink flesh. It tasted fresh and pure, with a hint of tannin at its edges. 

Frodo passed his hands down his body, then up again, nudging his nipples rising beneath his shirt with his thumbs. He shivered, not from the cold. Blood flowed to his brow, coalescing into a pounding that dulled his senses. 

_Why today? Why did it have to rain today?_

He remembered Sam's kiss: a moist tongue, mapping the curves of his mouth; demanding fingers printing urgent marks on the back of his neck; breath heavy and searing; Sam's eyes pleading for a million mouth-watering kisses... 

Frodo let his fingers slide over the cloth of his breeches.

Some parts of him were responding, waking to his deft finger-touch, to the runnelling water. A moan whispered from Frodo's parted mouth; his dark chocolate curls clung to his forehead; drips of water laved his skin, flowing down his body from shoulder to foot. 

Frodo opened his eyes. Could he release his longing here?

_Now?_

His breath snagged in the moist air, excitement rising at the thought of doing what he had only attempted before in the dark comfort of his bedroom, hiding the sight of his own arousal under blankets and sheets. 

Frodo pressed the cloth of his breeches to his thighs again and looked down. He was hard and aching, quivering. He had passed the point where he could ignore what his body cried for.

With one fumbling hand he unfastened his buttons, pulling burgeoning flesh out to the cool air, sighing with relief and need. Then something happened that made him moan aloud. A thick bead of water from an overhanging bough dripped down to splash against his heated skin, slipping down its turgid length. Another drop landed on the tenderness of the sensitive tip of his erection like a tear.

Frodo curled his fingers around himself, arched his head back, pressed his bottom against the rough bark. He watched as his fingers slid up and down, moving the skin, heat straining, swelling...

_Oh Sam -- if only--_

Frodo moved his thumb over the tip, gasping at the sensation of his own dew mixing with the rainwater.His curlscaught in the roughness of the tree barkas he pushed his head back, coarse against his scalp. 

Leaping inside him were a thousand fine-tuned sparks, twisting, grating, thrumming from his heart to his fingertips,bringing him closer to blissful release,dizzying his mind. Frodo's free hand clutched and gripped the trunk of the tree.

He had needed this since Sterday, since the possibility arose that Sam might desire him. Rocking back and forth, rolling his hips, Frodo heard himself murmuring Sam's name over and over with the pounding of the blood in his heart. 

Sam had nearly caught him doing this in his bedroom. What would Sam think: chancing upon him now? The very thought of it nearly drove Frodo over the edge, and his knees bent, hardly supporting his weight. Frodo sobbed as his fingernail scraped on the sensitive ridge of his erection. 

If only these were fingers were thicker, stronger, rough with calluses...

Fleetly Frodo's grasp descended. He chaffed the soft skin, cupping the tender flesh in his palms, places he had never dared touch himself before; the world spun beneath him. Through fluttering eyelashes he could see a vision of himself: a slender pale arc against the dark shape of the tree, linen shirt made transparent in the rain, plastered on his pale belly, his dark curls beaded, the flesh in his hand rigid and proud. 

Aching and wet, Frodo moaned, thrusting so fast his hand was but a blur, knowing in mere moments he would--

Release...

...stars pitching behind his eyes. Frodo fell onto the ground, on hands and knees to catch his breath, rain running down his face, water and his own spent seed mingling in the wet leaves and grass.

Biting his lip hard Frodo felt a hiccough tremble up his throat. 

Sam loved him.

_He knew it, he knew it._

And yet here he was like some lovesick tweener unable to keep himself under control, wanton and wild as he had never been in his life. Yet a half-week's worth of anxiety had now lifted from his shoulders.

After a while Frodo looked down at his untidy clothes as if in surprise, and tucked his spent flesh inside his breeches, quickly fastening his buttons. Although he felt relieved and content,he knew it was only momentary. He needed the fulfilment of knowing Sam's touch on him.

And not out in the garden soaked with rain. 

Frodo's light chuckle frosted in the misty air. _Patience_, he told himself austerely. _You have waited your life for this -- a little more waiting is not unbearable. Sam, are you waiting too? Does this longing make you ache enough to--_

Frodo clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a groan. Now _that_ train of thought wouldn't help settle himself one bit.

The hobbit shook his head, and lifted himself up from the tree. Bilbo would think him a proper Mad Baggins when he returned soaking wet (and contrite), and he began to walk towards Bag End. 

*

Bilbo had just finished tidying the kitchen when Frodo walked in, drying his hair with a towel. 

"Feeling better after your walk? Did you find the damp refreshing?" asked Bilbo.

"A little," said Frodo, dropping his eyes in sudden embarrassment.

His cousin was watching him, eyes warm and sympathetic. A soreness swelled in Frodo's throat."I -- I'm sorry, Bilbo," Frodo said. "You've a heart filled with love, enough for the whole Shire -- even a fool of a Baggins who doesn't deserve it."

Bilbo smiled and accepted Frodo's quick hug, standing aside to avoid the damp. "I'm glad to hear that, my boy. I suppose that walk in the rain bought a change of heart?"

Frodo blushed. "Yes." 

"My boy," began Bilbo, who was now turning to sit down at the kitchen table. "I've an errand for you."

"Yes, Uncle?" Frodo asked.

"While I was in the pantry this morning I found a bag of potatoes that need eating before they begin to sprout. Who do we know that could use them?" 

Frodo stared for a moment before slowly replying. "The Gamgees have plenty of mouths to feed."

"Just so." Bilbo stretched his arms out, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Somebody needs to take it to Bagshot Row, don't they? I think potato soup would be perfect on a day like today."

Frodo grinned.

"The sack's not too heavy for a short walk," said Bilbo, leaning back in his chair. 

Frodo threw his towel over the sink, as if eager to walk out in the rain once more.

"Unless, you would rather I had Master Smallburrow come up for the potatoes?" Bilbo asked innocently.

"No." Frodo found his voice. "I'll be happy to take them." 

A slow smile spread over Bilbo's face. 

*

Plump drips of water plopped into brown puddles as Frodo made his way to Bagshot Row. In one hand he held a bright yellow umbrella, a colour Frodo found to be almost offensive on a day such as today. In his other hand between clenched fingers was a rough sack. How many potatoes it held Frodo didn't know, but his arm began to ache, beginning at his shoulder then lancing downwards to his wrists.

The hobbit holes along Bagshot Row looked at first very much like those higher on the Hill. For one thing, they all had some type of fence, although some had more curls of paint missing than others. They all had large, round front doors, with a doorknob in the middle, though some were made of wood instead of brass. Each of the holes had pert little front gardens, with paths and flowers and bushes all arranged to hobbit tastes; although a greater variety of flowers with a sweeter perfume carefully tended along a path made of pretty cream-coloured stones marked out Number Three.

Frodo pushed the gate open at the Gamgees' hole and walked down the path. Before he could even set downhis sack or raise a fist to the door, it opened and a rather startled Master Hamfast looked out.

"Bless me! If it ain't Mr. Frodo. Come in, sir, come in!"

Frodo shook his umbrella free of water, and, guided by the Gaffer, stepped into the humble hallway, candlelight lapping at its walls. The faint scent of cooked cabbages pervaded the hole. "Thank you," said Frodo as the Gaffer took his load. 

"What's this here?" asked the Gaffer, peering into the sack.

"Potatoes, with regards from Bilbo," answered Frodo with a flourish.

"Why, thank'ee, Mr. Frodo." The Gaffer nodded, cheeks flushed with pleasure. "But I could've sent my Sam up to Bag End to collect it. No need for you to come all this way, 'specially on a day like today."

"I honestly don't mind. Walking in the rain can be quite pleasant."

"Well," the Gaffer grunted, giving Frodo a sideways glance, "if you say so. But I says that rain's good only for plants an' ducks. Wouldn't want to get a cold or worse. But where's that May?"

The Gaffer craned his head around. "May, get you here!" he called.

A lass in her tweens entered the room. She twirled a lock of wheat-coloured hair around her finger. As her eyes fell upon Frodo she turned crimson, hastily smoothing down her skirt. "Yes, da?" she asked, all the while regarding Frodo with frank curiosity. Frodo looked her in the eye, trying to act as a Master of the Hill would -- not flushing at a young lass' stare.

"Mr Frodo's come, so you put the kettle on the hearth and make some tea."

"Yes, sir," said May,with a quick efficiency that marked all of Hamfast Gamgee's children, and made her way quickly to the kitchen**.**

Frodo was shown to the sitting room, small and cosy. He was given what he was sure was the Gaffer's own chair, high-backed like a throne.

As they sat waiting for the tea, the Gaffer struck a match and lit the bowl of his pipe. Pale smoke wove up and girt the Gaffer's face, making him look almost as wise as a wizard; and his winking ale-brown eyes seemed to deepen when he looked at Frodo. Frodo fondled his cuff buttons uncomfortably.

"Is my Sam," asked the Gaffer around his pipe, "behaving hisself?"

"He's perfect," Frodo said, then realising, stammered, "I -- I mean, he's working very hard in the garden. It's blooming beautifully."

"Good," said the Gaffer, blowing a smoke ring towards the raindrop-stained window. "He's not gone asking you about elves and other such oddities?" 

"No, of course not."

"I told him not to bother the two of ye -- meaning you and Mr. Bilbo -- with all that nonsense. No disrespect to you, Mr. Frodo, but I told my Sam what may make sense to the gentry is not for folk like us."

"Hm," Frodo murmured, not knowing what to say. 

Thankfully May was at his side now with a cup of steaming tea, which Frodo gratefully accepted.

"T'will lead to no good, trying to raise yourself above your proper place," the Gaffer said with resolution, studying his pipe. Frodo noticed the Gaffer's hands were red and swollen, fairly shaking as he rolled the pipe over his fingers.

"I don't think Sam was trying to get above himself, Master Gamgee. I think he really has -- had an interest," Frodo said at last, then wondered if it might have been better to keep silent.

"Would you be wanting anything else, Mr. Frodo?" asked May, after a space of uncomfortable quiet.

"No, thank you, Miss May."

May gave a little curtsy before leaving the room.

"Is Sam here?" said Frodo, taking a sip of the tea, trying not to give himself away with a nervous tremble of the cup on its saucer. The tea was hot, if a little weak, and sweetened with honey.

"I sent him up over the Cottons'. They've been asking for a hand to plough the field."

"In the rain? Do you think that's wise?" Frodo winced at his too obvious concern, it certainly wasn't wise to question the Gaffer on how to look after his own children.

"Oh, he's a Gamgee, we're born to hardship. Don't pay no mind.Now that I think on it, Sam seemed mighty worried about this storm. Said that p'raps he ought to go another day, and go on up to Bag End." The Gaffer shook his head, tapping his pipe into the fire grate."I tells him," he continued, "'Sam Gamgee, I'm asking you to take yourself up to the Cottons', and if I says so, then you do it.'"

"When might he return?" Frodo ventured to ask.

"Early tomorrow he'll be back, and I'll send him on up the Hill. He'll be staying at the Cottons' farm for the night."

"Could you ask him to come to Bag End when he has the time?"

The Gaffer frowned. "I'll tell him, Mr. Frodo."

Taking the last sip of his tea, Frodo rose**. **"I should be going. I expect Bilbo has things for me to attend to."

"Of course, Mr. Frodo," said the Gaffer, leading the hobbit to the door. "It's a pleasure to have such a fine gentlehobbit as yourself at Number Three. Thank Mr. Bilbo for the taters."

"You grew those fine potatoes as I recall." Frodo smiled. "I'll give your regards to the Master of the Hill." He picked up his still-dripping umbrella and put a hand to the door. "Good day to you, Master Hamfast."

"And a good day to you, Mr. Frodo," the Gaffer said.

Frodo parted from the Master Gardener and strode up the Hill with quick, purposeful strides.

The Gaffer just watched him go, a slight furrow of concern between his brows.

*

Frodo paced up and down his bedroom. Rain still streaked down the window. Drops of water clung to the blades of grass, glistening every so often as a stray beam of sunlight stole through parted clouds. He walked over to his desk, picking up a flower that had lain there since yesterday. A forget-me-not, small and sky-blue, with a dusting of yellow at its heart. 

Frodo sat down on the chair and thought on how he had stolen this very flower from Sam's weskit.

"Frodo-lad?"

Frodo looked up. Bilbo's kindly face was troubled as he tapped his fingers on the desk beside Frodo. "I have something to tell you. I hope you won't be angry."

"Uncle?" Frodo's heart seemed to still.

Bilbo sighed. "I'm sorry, I said an untruth when I told you I misplaced your letter to Samwise. I tossed it into the fire as soon I as read it."

The old hobbit ducked his head and tugged with his cuff buttons, much, Frodo realised, as he had done in the Gamgees' sitting room in the presence of Sam's father.

"Perhaps I thought -- that if the letter were gone, somehow your affection for Sam would leave with it. Nonsense I know!" And Bilbo shook his head. "It has been a long time since I knew feelings as strong and passionate as yours for Samwise -- I know it doesn't make sense -- but it frightens me. I have a foreboding that some harm will come of it."

Frodo felt dread creep upon him, knowing that his cousin Bilbo had dreams -- the Sight, as hobbits called it -- never mentioned in polite society. Frodo had dreams of his own, only a few of which he had ever shared with his guardian. 

"Bilbo," he sighed, "not all dreams come true." But Frodo's voice was shaking as he said this.

The elder hobbit sighed, and set his hand upon his young cousin's shoulder, "Of course, you are right, Frodo. I should have spoken to you, and I am very sorry for burning your letter."

In his alarm Frodo felt a sudden swelling in his heart for Bilbo, and recalled every moment that he had spent in Bag End, how his cousin had given him a home, companionship and love when he needed it most.

Frodo reached up to hug Bilbo and kissed him. "I forgive you, dear Bilbo -- for you only had my best interests at heart. Rest assured that what I share with Sam will never bring either of us to harm." 

Bilbo smiled and chuckled softly. "You love Sam that much?" 

"I do," Frodo said.

Bilbo smiled at Frodo. "I only ever wanted you to be happy."

"And I am, thanks to you. All I'll ever need is right here -- you in the study and Sam in the garden."

Bilbo leant over and kissed Frodo on the brow. "I hope so," he whispered. He suddenly brightened, and giving Frodo's arms a final squeeze, stepped back. "Should I get that Quenya book I bought on Mersday? Keep us occupied, eh?"

Frodo chuckled. Bilbo's enthusiasms could not help but cheer the heart. "That sounds wonderful," he said, and carefully tucked the fading blue flower into his weskit-pocket. 

*~*

_Continued on Mersday..._


	6. Mersday: Flet

**6. Mersday: Flet**

After the daylong rains of yesterday, the earth was waterlogged. Thick clay caked Frodo's legs, tangling the curls on his feet. He'd only taken a stroll around the garden, but he was as muddied as any hobbit working a field. 

Frodo had been waiting for the sight of Sam for over an hour. The seedlings he and Sam had planted on Sterday had survived yesterday's downpour, but looked somewhat bedraggled in the moist soil, much like Frodo's spirit.

"Sam, do hurry!" Frodo whispered, impatiently craning his neck to look down the road.

And there he was, walking round the Row. A blush tinted Frodo's cheeks and his heart leapt up in his throat as he watched the sandy-haired hobbit walk towards him. 

"You're back!" said Frodo, unable to keep the longing from his voice as he unlatched the gate. 

"Yes sir," replied Sam. As he closed the gate he smiled at Frodo, and his eyes sparkled. "I've got to check on the garden after yesterday's rain, if you wouldn't mind following me?"

"I don't mind," said Frodo with a nod, pushing the thrill at seeing his new lover down to his feet. "How was your visit to the Cottons'?"

"Jolly and Tom and I were working hard to get the field ready. And I wish I could say after that I had a deep and dreamless sleep, but that would be stretching the truth." Sam chuckled. 

Frodo bit his lip to suppress a grin. He followed Sam down the path till they were concealed from the pebbled road by a densely leaved bush, small white flowers stippled through its foliage. Sam reached out to take one of the battered boughs in his hand, the expression on his face sorrowful. "Oh, look how this one's lost its blossoms."

Sam's words were stopped by Frodo's mouth, lips pressing tender-soft kisses over his mouth and cheeks. "Oh Sam," murmured Frodo.

Frodo curled his fingers in Sam's sun-woven hair, angling his head closer to kiss again, finding entry into Sam's mouth with an eager nudge of his tongue. For long, seeking moments their lips and tongues crushed together, urgent and pleading, as if the day apart had been a lifetime. Frodo pressed his body against Sam's shaking form, just savouring the warmth of him, the smell of his love: pipesmoke and cinnamon and crisp sunshine. Frodo felt his knees bend at the wonderful pleasure of it all.

Sam caught his master's shoulders for balance.

"I missed you," gasped Frodo, when he pulled away at last. 

"Oh, aye," smiled the gardener, as he reached up to stroke Frodo's curls, combing the tight ringlets with his fingers. "And I've missed you."

The two hobbits stood for a time, clinging to one another like the survivors of a shipwreck, with the flotsam of the storm about them. But at last Frodo saw the necessity of parting: there was much to do to set the garden to rights.

"I waited all of yesterday for you to finish your work," said Frodo, pressing his fingers to Sam's lips. "And the waiting was unbearable, but I don't see when we will find the time to be together."

"We'll make the time," Sam said, matter-of-fact. Frodo dropped his hand with a gasp as a warm tongue darted out from Sam's mouth to touch his fingers. 

"Sam! If only it could be that simple." Frodo chewed his lip. "How long will it take to clear up the garden?" 

Sam wrinkled his brow in concentration. "By luncheon, I expect."

"I could make a picnic lunch for us both, and we will take a quiet meal together, a pie perhaps, a wheel of cheese, some fruit -- and a dessert of course." 

"Dessert." Sam kept his voice steady and thoughtful. "Do you mind telling me what kind?" 

Frodo smiled, lowering his eyes. "I would like to surprise you." 

"Oh, you do that already," replied Sam in a tone that leaped out and stung Frodo's skin. 

"You'd best get to work," Frodo laughed, and pushed Sam playfully away, his voice sounding rather high-pitched to his embarrassment. That Sam would bandy love words with him -- the young hobbit was ordinarily so shy, blushing at even the slightest improper word. 

_Sam,_ Frodo mused as he followed the path inside, _you are also full of surprises. _

* 

Frodo bit into a strawberry, tangy juice filling the corners of his mouth. He wiped a finger across his lips, before wrapping the remaining strawberries in paper and putting the parcel into a picnic basket. 

_No more or there won't be any left for lunch!_ he reprimanded himself sternly, checking the contents of the basket he'd packed: cheese, mushrooms, two kinds of pies, apples, a flask of elderberry wine and, of course, the packet of strawberries. 

A knot twisted in Frodo's stomach as he stuffed the napkins around the food, a tension that pulled tighter and tighter as lunchtime drew near. His friendship with Sam would be tested to the furthest degree. This was unlike any encounter he'd had in his youth -- tweeners' play in Brandy Hall. Frodo felt as if something important hung in the balance, more than just a hobbit's happiness. 

"Going on a picnic?" Bilbo walked into the kitchen, holding the morning's mail.

"Yes." 

"A lot of food for one hobbit -- if that hobbit is Frodo Baggins." Bilbo looked askance at the contents of the basket as he slit an envelope open with a butter knife, then unfolded and read his letter. 

Frodo turned his back. "I thought Sam might like to join me, after he's set the garden to rights." 

Bilbo brows creased as he turned and read the last page of his letter, tucking it into his pocket with a sigh. 

"Nice day for it -- if a bit wet," Bilbo waved away Frodo's comment absently, and the hobbit was glad for the distraction of the letter.

Bilbo folded his hands before him. "I'm going to be making a journey to the Southfarthing. The leaf plantation's taken the blight. I expect to be away for a few days. You could come along and learn a thing or two."

Frodo gaped. At any other time he would have said 'of course!' in a trice, for he was mindful of his duties as Bilbo's heir. 

_But Sam...__Bilbo gone for a few days...they'd have the whole smial to themselves..._

"I'd rather stay here," Frodo murmured. "I'm in the midst of a translation, you know how difficult it is to leap in and out of Quenya." Doubtless his blush would give him away.

Bilbo huffed, looking down pointedly at the picnic basket. "You'll be Master of the Hill one day, Frodo. Remember that."

"I know, Bilbo," said Frodo quietly. "I promise I will come next time."

"I hope so, my boy," Bilbo sighed. "Because one day I will not be here to tend to all the responsibilities as Master." Bilbo looked at him in the eye. "I love you Frodo, but sometimes you linger too long in your daydreams."

Frodo hung his head, ashamed. "I'm sorry, Uncle."

Bilbo shook his head. "Go on, you scamp! Be mindful!"

Frodo picked up the basket, the tightness returning to his stomach. "Goodbye, Bilbo."

Bilbo crossed his arms, and watched his young cousin step out the back door.

* 

Frodo took the path to the back of the smial. He thought he heard a splash near the pump, so he rounded the corner quickly. The well head was hidden by a screen of lattice and hedge, but Frodo ducked under the narrow opening and stopped, the picnic basket almost slipping from his fingers. 

Busily scrubbing at his feet and bare legs was Sam, breeches flung over a boxthorn, his under-drawers pale against his brown skin. 

"Sam." It slipped from Frodo's tongue, half a sigh. 

"Mr. Frodo!" Sam startled, dropping the yellow soap to the ground. "I thought I'd get cleaned up." 

"So I see," Frodo murmured, taking a moment to gaze appreciatively upon his gardener's strong legs, hooking the basket over his elbow. 

Something fluttered behind Sam's eyes. "I won't be a moment." He tipped the bucket of water over his soaped-up legs, then dried them with a towel, rubbing the thick curls on his feet, hanging up the towel to dry and resting the soap on top of an overturned bucket. 

Frodo crossed his legs and looked over the Hill to the silver ribbon of the Water winding its way through Hobbiton. 

"Frodo?" said Sam, pausing, his breeches pulled up to mid-thigh. 

"Sam." Frodo's voice betrayed the fact he was trembling. "I can't possibly hold a conversation with you when you're half dressed." 

Sam grinned and buttoned himself up. "I'd reckon I'd be the same if I saw you," he said. Frodo covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a giggle of nervous laughter. 

Sam straightened, throwing back his shoulders. "I'm ready now."

_Yes_, thought Frodo_, but am I?_

Falling in step beside Sam, Frodo walked with him past the flower beds along the east side of Bag End. Sam trailed a hand through the foliage, the scent of Sam's oatmeal soap rising thick and rich to Frodo's nose, tickling his skin till it prickled. But Sam's attention was all toward the basket.

"I'm guessing that you've brought a pie," said Sam as they walked past the wineglass-shaped crocuses. 

"Yes, two kinds." Frodo nodded. "Sweet and savoury." 

*

Sam and Frodo strolled through the wood to the east if the Hill, occasionally stopping to look at a flower or catch fingers behind a tree of adequate girth. Sunlight trickled hazily through the canopy of leaves, sparking the pools of rainwater gathered in holes and ditches. A fresh aroma floated in the crisp air, the smell of wet flowers and earth mingling into something that could only lift the heart and curl lips into happy smiles. 

Presently Frodo came to a halt, his face lifting to the tall boughs above. "We're here," he announced. 

"Frodo?" Sam sounded puzzled. He reached out, fingering a rope ladder descending from the trunk of the tree. "What's 'here'?" 

"Look up, Sam." 

Sam expression shifted from confusion to wonder. "How did a treehouse get there?" 

"I built it!" Frodo grinned, happy that Sam gave him a look of admiration. "It's called a flet, the woodland elves use these in the forests. It's perfectly safe." 

Quickly, with the ease of a squirrel, one arm around the picnic basket, Frodo ascended the ladder, the rope gently swaying against the tree. Once at the flet, Frodo laid on his belly and called down to Sam. 

"Come on up!" 

"Frodo," said Sam, betraying some nervousness, "I don't think I can." 

"Please, Sam -- it's so pleasant up here." Frodo held a breath. This wasn't turning out the way he'd planned. He had forgotten that Sam did not climb trees, except with the aid of a sturdy ladder. The Fallohide blood ran through Frodo, bringing with it a love of trees and woodlands, but Sam came from Stoor stock, with it a deep resentment of things hilly and tall. 

"I won't make you do anything that makes you uncomfortable, Sam. This is my special place, and I wanted to share it with you." Frodo sighed and put his foot on the rope ladder to climb down. 

But Sam took the rope between his hands with determination in his eye. "Frodo, I promised I'd never let you get away from me." 

Frodo let out a merry laugh. "If you can climb up here, I shan't let you go." 

Sam muttered something under his breath, put his foot on the next rung. Grasp, step, grasp, step. Sam's faced furrowed with concentration, and he climbed higher and higher amongst the leaves. "Good," Frodo encouraged. "Not too much farther." 

"Will wonders never cease..." whispered Sam, and he caught the top rung with his hand, hauling himself with one last push onto the wooden floor of the flet. He lay motionless for a long moment, lips pressed against the slats, breathing heavily, his shirt damply clinging to his back. 

"Sam?" said Frodo softly, brows knitting at the limp, heaving form. 

Slowly Sam rolled over, his eyes glassy, unfocused, curls falling over his temple. "Ah me..." he whispered. 

"Oh my dear--" Frodo leant closer, his throat constricting. Why did he make Sam climb this tree? 

But the next moment Sam's eyes darkened, and Frodo felt a strong hand on the back of his neck. "I think," Sam said thickly, "I deserve a reward for that." 

Frodo dove into Sam's mouth, as if he were diving into the brown waters of the Brandywine. 

Shifting for comfort, Frodo found his knee had parted Sam's legs and his breast was firm against Sam's. Something hard and tensile prodded Frodo's stomach, making him gasp, his fingers finding wispy golden hairs peeking from Sam's opened shirt. 

Frodo tipped Sam's chin, moving to once again find the sweetness of his mouth. But Sam turned his head; instead Frodo kissed a damp cheek, and found amber-brown eyes looking at him. 

"Frodo." Sam levered himself up. "I--" He glanced warily at the edge of the flet. "I don't think there's enough room up here." 

Frodo felt a smile quirk at his lips. The flet was perhaps only one and a bit ells square. Sam was right. He chided himself for not building a wider floor. "Why don't we have our lunch?" 

Sam nodded in agreement. 

Frodo pulled a blanket from where it hung on a low-hanging branch and spread it out on the floor, then began unpacking the picnic basket. He sighed. "Sam? I think I forgot--" 

"The forks and plates and cups?" grinned Sam. 

"Well, yes." He blushed at his thoughtlessness. 

"It's not proper like, but we could use our hands." 

Frodo nodded, and tore a chunk of pastry off the savoury pork-pie, dropping it into his mouth. Sam did the same, grinning. "A fine gentlehobbit, aren't you, Mr. Frodo?" he teased. 

Frodo licked his fingers, the pie was delicious. After all, Bilbo had made it, seasoning the minced pork with parsley and basil and thyme, and, thought Frodo, smacking his lips, a hint of sage.

When they had finished the pies, they ate the mushrooms, tender and plump; and then the wheel of cheese, breaking off the crumbs with their fingers. Feeling satisfied, they munched on the apples, licking the sweet juice from their chins.

"Wonderful," sighed Sam as they finished off the food between them. 

"Mmmm," Frodo replied, dusting pastry flakes from his weskit. He picked up the flask. "A drink, Sam?" 

"Yes, please." 

Frodo popped out the cork, tipping the flask to his lips. The elderberry wine was tart on his tongue, sliding easily down his throat. He handed the flask to Sam, watching as the hobbit threw his head back with gusto. 

Immediately Sam coughed, his face red, a line of crimson trickling down his chin. 

"Frodo! I thought it was water."

Frodo smiled, trying not to think about licking up the droplets. 

"It's good, though," said Sam, swiping again at his face, this time at a tear at the corner of his eye. "Like a fire's in your belly." 

"Yes, and a few mouthfuls more like that, Sam, and you shall feel it everywhere."

Sam turned his head to the edge of the flet. "Aye, but that's enough for me. I ain't wanting to be dizzy while I'm trying to climb down." 

"Maybe you don't need to climb down for a while," Frodo pondered. 

"_Frodo!" _

"Yes, you've got gardening to do." Frodo unwrapped the paper covering the strawberries, picking up a rather plump, bright one. "But for now... Would you like a strawberry, Sam?" 

Sam reached for the fruit. "Yes." But Frodo raised his hand.

"Like this..." Frodo whispered, and, plucking off the stem and tossing it back over his shoulder, he lifted the berry to Sam's mouth. 

And the hobbit took the whole strawberry into his mouth, pink lips around the red fruit, and sucked it, his eyes never leaving Frodo's. He moved his chin, biting and chewing the berry slowly, savouring every bit of its sweetness. Frodo moved a finger to wipe Sam's glistening lips -- even though he had remembered the napkins -- but Sam opened his mouth, caught Frodo's finger and lapped it with his tongue. 

"Oh!" Frodo gasped.

The flesh on the inside of Sam's mouth was warm and wet, his tongue slippery over Frodo's finger. Frodo's tried to recapture his finger, sliding it half-way out, but missing the delicious sensation, pressed it back in again.

At last Sam stopped to breathe, letting Frodo's finger scatter down his chin. "You taste sweet," the gardener said when he could speak, pressing both hands firm on his thighs. 

Frodo kissed his lips. "So do you, Sam," he sighed, and lay down right against Sam, for the width of the flet would allow only this.

Sam curled his arms around him. "I like this." 

They lay comfortably in each other's arms, listening to the leaves rustling as the east wind threaded through the trees, fingers scrambling over velvet and homespun cloth, peace seeping into their skins. Frodo found another strawberry half-squashed under his arm, quite edible, and munched it while reminiscing. 

"I went to the Marish with my cousins every spring to gather strawberries. Great fields of strawberries as far as you could see, going on forever." Frodo laughed fondly. "Once Merry and I had a contest to see how many we could eat -- and we were both sick for days. I'm glad that I can enjoy them again -- with you." 

Frodo could see Sam's lips shiver into a smile and chuckled. The quietness of the forest spun around them again. All their worries seemed to be borne away with the breeze, and nothing mattered but that they were together at last. 

"What's the elvish word for love?" asked Sam suddenly, his hand flat on Frodo's belly. 

"_Mel." _

"And the elvish word for tree?" 

"_Orn_. Why?" 

"Then this is our _melorn. Our lovetree, Frodo." _

"Our _melorn," Frodo ran it over his tongue. "That sounds wonderful, dear Sam. So, would you come up here with me again?" _

"If you'll have me." 

"I shall." Frodo made for Sam's mouth, but Sam wriggled away, his face serious.

"Frodo, I've been thinking..." 

"Bad habit," Frodo smiled, letting his fingers wander over Sam's shoulder. 

"I'm being serious, Frodo," Sam blushed. "If we are to be together as I'd hope, it should be special."

Frodo watched breathlessly as crimson brushed Sam's cheeks, spreading down his neck. 

"It will, my Sam, I promise." 

"I've never -- I hope I don't do nothing wrong." 

"In this I am not much more than book-learned--" Frodo pressed himself against his friend. "I think as long as we trust each other, there's not much we could do wrong. After all, we've held each other, and we've kissed; it would be much the same, but without encumbrances -- like this weskit." And Frodo tugged at that article of clothing.

"And this shirt--" His hands moved across the younger hobbit. "And these trousers."

"Frodo..." Sam's eyes became soft and dreamlike. "When you talk like that it makes me wish I were sitting on safe ground."

Frodo swept a kiss across Sam's lips. "But I love talking to you about it -- thinking about it."

"So, tell me what you're thinking on?" Sam asked. 

"Well..." Frodo pursed his lips and considered. He felt his own face warm. "I think about your skin, how it glows like new gold."

Sam held Frodo tightly. "And..?" Golden eyes watched Frodo curiously. "Go on."

"I would like to put my mouth on every part of you, from your head down to your toes."

The younger hobbit's wide grin was dazzling, so that Frodo blinked, the heat in Sam's glance unmistakable.

Frodo ducked his head. "Perhaps I should stop now."

"But--" Sam worried his lower lip. "You do _want_ to love me don't you?"

"Of course I do!" Frodo laughed. "But it's difficult to tell somebody your most secret dreams. Even if you love them very much. Would you tell me all of _yours_?"

Sam nodded. "If you asked."

Frodo fondled Sam's collar. "You are much braver than I, dear Sam."

For a space they listened to the murmur of the forest, then Frodo cleared his throat. "Sam," he began, feeling a tingle of excitement. "Would you tell what you've thought about?"

"Promise not to laugh?" Sam lifted his chin.

"I promise."

"Well..." Sam squirmed, nervous. "I imagined you in your bed, just as I'd come to wake you up in the morning. And when I felt brave enough I'd kiss you right on the mouth, and you'd wake up and kiss me back till we were both dizzy and light-headed."

"That's very nice, Sam." Frodo smiled encouragingly. "And...what else?"

Sam traced the pattern on the rug with a finger. "You would have naught on under the bedclothes, and I'd just touch you and kiss you all over."

"Ah. What would I be doing?" Frodo couldn't help but gasp at Sam's desires, they seemed very much like his own. His pulse began to beat faster.

Sam frowned. "I don't know, I never thought that far."

"Maybe," Frodo suggested, heart pounding, "I would kiss _you all over, and nibble at _your_ neck, and sigh into _your_ ear."_

"I'd like that," Sam said, wriggling against Frodo. "And what else?"

"Well..." Frodo considered. "I'd push you gently into the mattress, just basking in the gentle scent and touch of you. Perhaps I would suckle at the hollow of your throat, discovering how to make you moan. Then I would measure the length of your eartip with my tongue, and linger there only long enough to murmur how much I love you before I sample your mouth again."

Frodo paused to close his lips over Sam's for a moment, teasing Sam's lower lip. 

"And I'd--" Frodo took a deep breath and rushed ahead. This was all too exciting now to stop. He couldn't believe he was having this conversation with _Sam. "I'd slowly remove your shirt, letting it slide over your broad chest, following it with my lips in slow kissing... I'd feel you trembling when I press my hand to your belly, making slow strokes ever lower. Perhaps stopping to grasp your perfectly round buttocks and push your hips to mine, teasing the hem of your trousers with my teeth--_

"Well, perhaps not with my teeth. I'd use my fingers to open the lacings of your breeches and pull them open slowly, aching for the sight of you, hopefully the fabric would be pulled taunt, because you'd rise for me, and then I'd slide your trousers down the curve of your hips to free you -- I imagine I'll weep at the sight, if the beauty of your body everywhere else is anything to go by."

Frodo glanced at Sam under his lashes. He was blushing, and his mouth had fallen open, but he looked -- eager. Frodo nuzzled the corner of Sam's lips.

"And I could touch you just _there_, and stoke away your longing and--" the hobbit lowered his voice, trembling, "--maybe even _taste_ it."

"Frodo!" Sam moaned in Frodo's mouth. 

Breathless, Frodo continued. "Then you'd shout my name in your delight and I would join you just looking at your face. And it would be the most wonderful moment of my life." 

Frodo paused to let his heart steady, and realised he had carried his fantasy into Sam's. "Oh Sam, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"That's all right." Sam sounded rather breathless himself. "If you promise to let me do that to _you_ as well."

"Sam," Frodo purred, "I would _adore_ it."

Sam chuckled and shook his head, taking Frodo's hand and brushing his lips over each finger. "You're brave too," Sam said quietly, shy knowledge quirking his lips. They looked at each other deeply, marvelling at the secrets they had just shared. Frodo decided it was the best conversation he had ever had.

Sam sighed. "Aye, you have a way with words, Frodo -- makes me quiver, leastways. Speaking of which, what happened to the letter you were going to give to me?"

"Oh, Sam. Bilbo found it and it frightened him -- he tossed it into the fire! I love him dearly, but sometimes he's earned the name of Mad Baggins." 

Sam eyes went as round as saucers. "Mr. Bilbo knows?"

Frodo caught his breath.

Panic flared over Sam's face. "But he'll tell my Gaffer, won't he? Oh, dear." 

"Sam." Frodo clasped Sam's hand, stroking the trembling fingers. "Bilbo won't tell. When the timing's right, I think you'll be the one to tell your Gaffer -- if you want to." 

Sam nodded slowly. "I think so." The fear from his eyes subsided, and he sighed. "It's not that I'm not proud to be with you -- I'd shout my love for you from the top o' the Hill if I could, but the situation being as it is, with you the Master's heir and me your gardener." He shrugged.

Frodo breathed again. "Tomorrow Bilbo is going away to see a tenant for a few days. Would -- would you like to spend the night at Bag End?" 

The silence of Sam's response clawed at Frodo's skin. "Sam?" he whispered. 

"Yes. Yes. Yes," said Sam softly, pushing his face snug in the crook of Frodo's neck. Frodo held the younger hobbit, relief and an exquisite longing warming his body.

*

In time Frodo picked up the basket, and Sam helped him pack away the remains of their lunch. "Shall we climb down?" 

Sam threw his shoulders back. "I'll go first, if you don't mind. Then if I fall it's just myself I'll be hurting." 

"I wouldn't let you fall." Frodo pressed his lips on the corner of Sam's mouth, letting his tongue leave a slick trail of warmth over Sam's lower lip. "Will that help give you courage?" 

"Maybe," said Sam, inclining he head thoughtfully. 

"How about if I do that again when we get down?" asked Frodo. 

"All right," murmured Sam. "I'll go quick then!" 

"But careful!" Frodo said, and steadied his friend's arm. 

* 

Sam managed to climb down from the tree with much grumbling and some hesitation, but those noises died on his lips when he received his reward from Frodo. They made it back to Bag End without being distracted by too many long-winded kisses, and Sam promptly went back to work on the vegetable patch. 

The rest of the afternoon Frodo spent baking a batch of gooseberry and cinnamon muffins; the delicious smell even roused Bilbo from his study, and he gave Frodo a pat on the back and smile as he picked up two warm muffins from the tray. The scent also drew the attention of Bag End's gardener, whose corn-coloured head rose to the kitchen window more than once to taste the many delicacies offered. 

As the afternoon began to deepen, Frodo relaxed in his favourite chair, thumbing through his elvish love book. From his initial translations, it was quite detailed, and Frodo found himself flushing deeply at the snatches of wanton prose. 

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam called from the doorway, pausing for his muddy feet. "I should be going now," he said. "Marigold's expecting me for supper and I ought not to be late." 

Frodo closed the book, placing it on the table, looking about to make sure they were quite alone, and stepped towards Sam, weaving his fingers through Sam's curls, melting their lips together as the coppery sunshine bathed them in its light. 

"If I ever tire of kissing you, dear Sam, I do not want to live," murmured Frodo when they parted, smoothing down Sam's wrinkled shirt. 

"I wouldn't want you to -- tire, I mean." Sam blinked. "Nor die."

"Sam... You've ruined my metaphor."

Sam sighed. "Sorry, sir."

"And," said Frodo, leaning against the doorjamb, "don't call me 'sir' when we're alone. I hope you sleep well tonight." 

Sam's eyes shone. "I will, Mr. Frodo," he added boldly. 

Frodo chuckled. "Old habits are hard to break! We might have to make some new ones between us." He stopped, watching colour rise to Sam's face. "Good night, Master Gamgee." Frodo put out his hand so that Sam could shake it, as they had used to part.

Sam drew up Frodo's hand to his lips. "Good night." 

*~*

_Continued on Highday..._


	7. Highday: Tumble

7. Highday: Tumble  
  
*  
  
Warm. Soft. Spicy. These sensations flooded into Frodo's sleepy brain as he began to wake. A shallow breath stirred on his mouth, and golden motes swam under his eyelids. Frodo opened his eyes and found himself looking into warm brown eyes the colour of polished hazelnuts, and felt a softness pressing onto his lips that tasted of tea and pipesmoke.  
  
Frodo gasped into Samwise Gamgee's mouth.  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry!" His gardener jumped back, tugging at his weskit, a bright pink colouring his cheeks.  
  
Frodo's bedroom was still blanketed in darkness; Sam had yet to pull back the curtains to allow light into the room.   
  
"I didn't mean to wake you," Sam sighed, straightening his weskit proper- like. "You looked lovely, just lying there so peacefully. I just couldn't help myself, begging your pardon."  
  
"You needn't be sorry, Sam," said Frodo, sitting up, pulling his fingers through his tangled hair. "What a delightful way to wake up."  
  
"Well," mumbled Sam, striding to the window and pushing the curtains aside, leaning out to gaze upon the garden. "Are you hungry for a bite of something?"  
  
"Sam, come back here," said Frodo, already missing the touch of Sam's skin.  
  
Sam shivered slightly, walking over to take Frodo's hand in his own. Looking up through dusky eyelashes, Frodo asked, "What's on offer?"  
  
"Fresh eggs and bacon? Toast and jam? What were you wanting?" prompted Sam.  
  
"You," Frodo purred, reaching out and catching his gardener's shirtfront, intending to again taste those clever lips.  
  
"Ah, no." Sam lifted his finger in admonition. "Kissing you in bed might very well lead to other things and," -- he lowered his voice to whisper -- "Mr. Bilbo's not even gone yet."  
  
Frodo muttered what might have been an elvish curse.  
  
"And, if you don't mind me saying," -- Sam glanced down to look upon Frodo's bare torso -- "knowing you've got naught on under that sheet will make it difficult enough to keep my mind on cooking." He shook his head as his voice trembled. "What is Mr. Frodo's pleasure?"  
  
Frodo sighed in defeat. "A mushroom omelette," he said, and fell back into his pillows once more.  
  
"You should be getting up to see Mr. Bilbo off." Sam put his hands on his hips.  
  
"As soon as a certain hobbit leaves my bedroom I can get out of bed." Frodo gestured to the coverlet. "I happen to be naked."  
  
"Doesn't bother me in the leastest, sir, but if you're shy about it..." Sam walked out the bedroom door with a wink in Frodo's direction.  
  
Frodo lifted the blanket over his face and laughed. Today was the day, he just knew it.  
  
*  
  
Frodo stood at the parlour window, nibbling on his fingernails. Each Highday afternoon Sam went to join his Gaffer at *The Green Dragon* for a mug of ale as regular as clockwork. Sam had suggested Frodo join them, but Bilbo had yet to set off, and besides, Frodo knew he would be too anxious to sit and drink, and would probably spend his time watching Sam with unmistakable longing.  
  
He tapped a torn fingernail against the glass, hearing a dull clink. Sam would make merry with ale and pipes and food till early evening, till the feasting ceased and he could come back up the Hill. The noise in the inn was sure to resemble a dull roar as the sun went to slumber, and undoubtedly there would be more than a few hobbits stumbling home.  
  
Sam had reassured Frodo that he had a plan all worked out: he would tell his Gaffer that he must stay at Bag End while Mr. Bilbo was away, to cook and fetch for the young Master.  
  
"And where will you sleep?" Frodo had asked mischievously. "I can make a pallet in the kitchen, so you can be near at hand."  
  
"I'll be sleeping wherever you are, if you've a mind to trade in your feather bed," Sam answered, making a warm flush rise through Frodo's skin as he stole a quick kiss in the hall to seal the promise.  
  
Frodo swallowed the flutter of nerves rising in his throat. Sam was confident that the Gaffer would let him stay over for the night, but what if the Gaffer said no? What if he suspected Frodo's visit to Number Three on Hensday was more than just delivering a sack of potatoes? Frodo curled his fingers over the window sill. Oh, there was no point in worrying, Frodo chastised himself; though he felt that if Sam didn't come up to Bag End tonight, he would surely die of longing.  
  
Bilbo strode from room to room, talking to himself and singing as he packed. Frodo thought on his own plans. He would have a nice long soak in the bath, with fragrant oil laced into the water, then he'd prepare a light supper for him and Sam: the best of the Tookish wine, mushrooms with herbed butter, cold meats, wedges of cheese and a cream cake with berries. He would cut flowers from the garden and dust the petals over his bed, and light candles around the room, for the yellow glow would warm the radiance of Sam's skin.  
  
And then... Frodo let his finger travel down the window's thick waving glass. A crunch of feet on the road, the scrape of the gate being unfastened, unsteady footsteps pattering down the path... *Oh, my dear Sam, please let me love you tonight. I promise it shall be-*  
  
"Frodo! I'm leaving now. Come and say farewell."  
  
Frodo found Bilbo in the hallway, shouldering his pack and swinging his walking stick from one hand. "Do you have everything you need, Bilbo?" he asked. "Your extra pocket handkerchiefs?"  
  
"I'll not forget them again," said Bilbo, tugging out a white linen corner and squashing it back into his weskit pocket. He shrugged his shoulders. "I've forgotten how heavy these packs can be. Next time you can come along and take the heavier pack."  
  
"I'd be glad to," said Frodo.  
  
"Good lad!" Bilbo's lips suddenly curled into a wry smile. "And how will you be when I'm gone?"  
  
Frodo turned his eyes to the floor with a blush. "Sam will look after me."  
  
"See that he does," Bilbo said with a sigh. "I wish you happiness and joy, Frodo. Be mindful that once you take this step, you cannot take it back."  
  
"I know, Uncle. I shall remember."  
  
"Hmph." Bilbo shook his head. "I must be off. Farewell, dear Frodo." And Bilbo kissed Frodo on the brow, and walked out the bright green door, his head held high.  
  
*  
  
Frodo wandered through Bag End's garden, arms wrapped around himself to stay the chill. Stars pricked the sky above. In the east he could see the Sickle rising high above the treetops, cresting the shadow of the Hill. The lights of Hobbiton winked below, golden and bright. But Frodo wanted to be here, in Sam's little realm, in the cool shade of evening, wakening to the wispy perfume of snapdragons and nasturtiums. If Frodo closed his eyes, he could almost *feel* him, could almost reach out and-  
  
"Mr. Frodo?" Warm, steady arms wrapped around Frodo's waist. "I'm here."  
  
Lips moved across Frodo's neck, stopping at the corner of his mouth. "Oh Sam," Frodo murmured, chuckling softly with relief.  
  
"I thought I'd find you inside Bag End; I was worried you'd changed your mind." Fingers raked the curls on Frodo's nape, gentle and sure.  
  
"I'm not, I haven't," Frodo laughed, twisting his head to claim Sam's mouth. "I came out here to feel near you. You taste of ale. Very good ale at that."  
  
"Nothing compared to the taste of you," Sam replied, and kissed his Master again.  
  
Sam's hands wandered across Frodo's chest, warming his skin through the fine linen of his shirt, while Sam's mouth was busy scattering kisses up and down Frodo's throat. Frodo could smell a wholesome, fresh fragrance, driving away all care but one. "You smell so good, Sam."  
  
It seemed Sam had taken a liking to the base of Frodo's neck, for he dallied there for several more heartbeats before he answered. "It's them flowers in the windowbox I'm leaning against."  
  
"Oh!" Frodo glanced over Sam's broad shoulder and saw that they embraced right beside the window of his bedroom. "They smell lovely, whatever they are..." Any other words the hobbit might have spoken were lost with his breath; Frodo arched his body against the sturdy frame of his gardener, so that his neck could be kissed thoroughly.  
  
Sam's mouth threaded up to Frodo's ear. "'Tis called heart's-ease. Look closer." Sam stepped around Frodo, placing gentle hands on either side of Frodo's waist.  
  
Sam's voice blew tiny breaths of wind into Frodo's ear. "I planted them by your bedroom window to ease your heart."  
  
"And who knew my heart was lost?" Frodo gazed at the small, nodding flowers, dark purple in the shadows. Sam's hands rested firm on his hips.  
  
"Because I see how you think on the loss of your folk, and worry on losing Mr. Bilbo, and I know you're afraid of being left alone. So I put these flowers here, so they could always greet you in the morning and see you to sleep."  
  
Frodo brushed a thumb along a delicate petal. "I don't deserve you, my Sam."  
  
"Now don't you go saying that." Sam drew a finger along Frodo's jawline. "I want to do for you, in everything."   
  
"Everything," said Frodo softly, twisting his head to catch Sam's mouth. "Sam, may we go inside?"  
  
"Sir?" Sam looked shy but eager, brown eyes brushed with shadowy moonlight.  
  
"Sam," chuckled Frodo, squeezing Sam's arm gently. "You've been so patient, waiting all week."  
  
"Longer than that, months, years," murmured Sam, fingers tangled in Frodo's weskit.  
  
"Even so, it's been a long week."  
  
"I haven't been patient," said Sam softly, ducking his head. "I thought I'd break my wrist with the frustration."  
  
"No one to help you, poor dear?"   
  
"Just me, myself and I," Sam grinned.  
  
"I couldn't stop thinking about you and what I wanted to do. I even went for a walk in the rain, hoping to cool myself down," said Frodo in a rough whisper.  
  
Sam grunted. "Did it work?"  
  
"No." Frodo grasped Sam's wrists and held onto him, his face flushed bright at the memory. With Sam so close to him now he was beginning to burn once more, blood running smooth and quick through his veins.  
  
Sam pushed his face into Frodo's shoulder. "I saw you."  
  
"What?" Frodo gasped with a shudder of delight.  
  
"On Trewsday," whispered Sam. "You had your hand down there, and if I hadn't been such a fool as to make a noise I might have--" And the gardener smiled with the corners of his mouth, one eyebrow lifting in wry humour. "The sight of you would have gone a bit toward easing my frustrations this week."  
  
Frodo smiled. "I nearly died of shock."  
  
"I hope you didn't mind."  
  
Frodo caught a breath, memories flowing through him, heady and sweet. "No, of course not. Shall we go inside, dear Sam, and do something about it, at long last?"  
  
Frodo was answered when urgent lips touched his own.  
  
*  
  
Author's Note: There is more of this story, but I've decided to put it on my website (check my profile for the address) because it is most definitely rated NC-17. So if this kind of thing bothers you, or if you're underage, please be responsible and do not follow the link. Having said that, I hope you enjoy rest of the last chapter, and of course you may leave any comments here if you wish. 


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